


Pylades Healing

by nightrose



Series: Pylades Fasting [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Eating Disorders, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical, Miscommunication, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2018-11-16 00:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11242539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: A sequel to my fic "Pylades Fasting".Grantaire thought he was getting better. Apparently, he was wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote Pylades Fasting three years ago. At the time I had an untreated eating disorder and no idea what recovery actually looked like. I thought I left the fic at a hopeful place, because I imagined that's what my own recovery would look like: slow, gradual, getting loved better by a significant other... That's really not how it works (in my experience) and I've been thinking for a while about returning to this universe to explore a more realistic version of the recovery process.
> 
> Content notes will be at the beginning of each chapter. In this chapter, there is vague allusion to ED behaviors, one mention of weight, one on-stage behavior (restriction) and general medical themes.

Grantaire is selling a twine-bound collection of battered Balzac novels to a couple of earnest Japanese tourists when his phone buzzes.

 

He smiles reflexively when he sees that it’s Enjolras, or, as he’s known in Grantaire’s phone, _Mon Ange._ The smile disappears when he sees what it says.

 

“We need to talk.”

 

The anxiety is physical before it’s anything else. His stomach flips over, his heart begins to race, his chest contracts. He can feel red blood in his cheeks, burning with heat. He’s been working on this in therapy, though, and now instead of instantly reaching for the flask he used to keep at his hip to steady his nerves, he takes a deep breath, in for a count of four, hold for a count of four, out for a count of four. It doesn’t work, obviously. It’s ridiculous to think that a little counting and a little breathing could do anything against the monster that lives in his mind. So much for six months of therapy every week. It’s barely enough to keep him conscious among the waves of terror. Still, it gets him thinking again instead of just hyperventilating. 

 

He excuses himself from a customer and closes up his booth. The young woman looks a little disappointed as he leaves—she had seemed so relieved to find someone she could speak to, and although Grantaire’s Japanese skills leave something to be desired, at least he makes an effort. She’s saying something that he’s sure isn’t complementary to her husband, but so much the worse. It’ll be Grantaire’s contribution to Parisian culture for the day: make a tourist feel unimportant. 

 

He walks down to the riverbank so that no one can hear him and calls Enjolras. The water is glinting off of the Seine. It’s all very pretty. Grantaire hates it with a violent passion that surprises even him. 

 

“Hi, my love,” Enjolras says, and now Grantaire is _angry._

 

“Can we just get to it?” he says, pleading. The desperation in his voice disgusts him, makes him pathetic, but he can’t help it. “Please, Enjolras, just say what you’re going to say.”

 

“I really want to have this conversation in person, if we can. Could you meet me around four at the Musain? I’ll be done this article by then.”

 

He doesn’t want to be broken up with in the Musain, and he doesn’t want to wait for Enjolras to finish yet another stupid article that’s more important to him than Grantaire is. “No,” he says, a little shocked at his own degree of backbone. “Like I said, now. I’ve just closed down the booth. Leave your papers and start walking. I’ll meet you at _Le Table Noir._ ” He names a café halfway between Enjolras’ location and his.

 

“Okay, love. I’ll see you there soon.” His tone is sugary-sweet, the way Enjolras’ voice is when he’s trying to calm Grantaire down. Grantaire doesn’t want to be calmed down. If he’s calm, he’ll be miserable. Right now, he’s angry. Angry is good. It reminds him there are a lot of things about Enjolras he can’t stand, actually. 

 

Grantaire starts walking. As he walks, he tries not to think. He is not successful.

 

He’s been expecting this since the beginning. He’s had to. Enjolras is—his brain supplies any number of adjectives. Gorgeous. Brilliant. Too good for him. Perfect. Most relevantly, Enjolras is _Enjolras._

 

He’s everything Grantaire ever wanted. Not to be melodramatic about it, but he’s the single best thing in Grantaire’s shitty garbage fire of a life. 

 

He knows—he’s known from the beginning—that this was going to be temporary. It’d last as long as Enjolras’ pity, and no longer. He wishes he could say that he’s glad Enjolras is telling him it’s worn out, that he wouldn’t want Enjolras keeping him around out of concern for poor crazy broken Grantaire. 

 

That would be a lie, but what is life if one cannot lie to oneself? It’s one of the sweetest pleasures Grantaire has, up there with a full glass of wine and Enjolras’ cock in his mouth.

 

He wonders if Enjolras will consent to fuck him one last time, as a farewell. He could use the memories to cling to. He’ll probably have to try and keep himself going. It wouldn’t be very polite to kill himself just because Enjolras broke up with him. Enjolras would probably feel terrible.

 

He has the food thing, at least. That will get him through. He can stop trying, without the pressure of Enjolras’ concern. He can stop eating, empty himself out completely and go flat and numb. He won’t have to feel the pain. 

 

He’s spiraling, which he can at least recognize as unproductive even if he can’t quite make himself do anything about it. He focuses instead on what he can do, which is put one foot in front of the other until _Le Table Noir_ comes into view around the corner. 

 

Enjolras is already waiting for him. He’s wearing that damn red coat and a concerned expression and he looks so perfect that Grantaire’s heart skips a beat and he forgets for a second why he’s here. 

 

Then his brain helpfully reminds him. This could be the last time he ever sees Enjolras, so take it all in. Golden hair and marble skin, long limbs and lean body, rich red lips and sky blue eyes. 

 

He’ll never kiss those lips again, never touch that skin. Good. Lapse into melodrama. That will minimize the very real problem of losing Enjolras. Of losing all the things that Grantaire will really miss. Not Enjolras’ beauty, or his many talents in the bedroom, or his melodious voice, or his sculpted body. All of those things he could give up. It’s his heart. His brilliant mind. His generous and unfailing love.

 

Unfailing until now, anyways. Well, even angelic compassion has its limits, where Grantaire is concerned. He’s been expecting it, he reminds himself. He’s always known this is how it would end. Suddenly, when Enjolras could no longer put up with him. 

 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and his voice is soft. Grantaire can’t quite identify that tone. He assumes it’s pity. “Sit, please.”

 

Grantaire isn’t sure this is really going to take all that long but, as always, he obeys Enjolras’ command. They’re close together now, too close. Enjolras waves off a nearby waiter with one imperious turn of his hand. 

 

“Are you all right? You sounded upset on the phone.”

 

“Of course I sounded upset, Enjolras, fucking hell.”

 

Enjolras’ lips turn downward into the frown he gets when he’s judging himself. So many little intimate details Grantaire will have to forget, if he doesn’t want to lose his mind in the aftermath. He can’t spend the rest of his life walking around with that in his head, the knowledge that _this_ expression on Enjolras’ face means he thinks he’s made a mistake and _that_ expression means he’s pleased with a joke he’s about to tell and _this_ one means he’s trying not to show that something has turned him on and _that_ means that he’s in love, he’s in love with Grantaire, or at least that’s what Grantaire thought, but he’d seen it just last night so that can’t be it.

 

Or maybe—and it’s a pretty horrible thought but he forces himself to think it—maybe Enjolras does love him, but he’s still just not worth the trouble. He’s not an easy boyfriend to have, he knows that. He’s crazy and needy and people stare at them when they’re together. 

 

“I’m sorry. I knew I shouldn’t have started this conversation over text.”

 

“Oh, yeah, that’s what I’m upset about.” 

 

Enjolras’ frown deepens. “Hang on, R. I think we may be having two different conversations.”

 

Probably, since Grantaire is as useless at communication as he is at everything else.

 

“Why do you think I wanted to talk to you?”

 

Grantaire looks at him. Enjolras can’t honestly believe he’s _that_ stupid. “For the one and only reason that people say ‘we need to talk’ to their significant others?”

 

Enjolras looks at him blankly.

 

Now he’s getting pissed off. “Oh, come on, you wouldn’t dabble in cliché if you weren’t hoping I’d do the hard work of this for you. Well, I won’t. Say it, if you want to say it. Go on.”

 

“I really don’t know what you mean, R.”

 

“Would you just tell me? Please?” And now he can check begging off the list of embarrassing possible responses to this. Great. 

 

“Look, I wanted us to be able to talk about this calmly. You’re already upset—“

 

“So now I’m not supposed to have feelings about this? Let me just sit here and take it calmly, then. You want to break things off, I get it, it’s fine. Is that what you want to hear?”

 

“What?” Enjolras says, and Grantaire stops to catch his breath. It feels like there’s something pressing on his chest. It’s not like he doesn’t recognize the physical sensation of heartbreak, but he has to pull through. He can go around the corner and start weeping as soon as this is done, but he doesn’t want to cry in front of Enjolras. He’s done that often enough in front of Enjolras, his boyfriend. He doesn’t want to do it in front of Enjolras, his ex. “You think I want to end things?”

 

“Don’t you?”

 

“Of course not! Why would you think that?”

 

His whole body floods with relief before Grantaire can process it mentally. “Because that’s what people mean when they say ‘we need to talk!’ It’s code for ‘I’m breaking up with you’. Everyone on earth knows that!”

  
Everyone on earth except, apparently, Enjolras, who is looking at Grantaire with an expression that could be safely characterized as shock and horror. “Of course I don’t want to break up with you! I love you!”

 

“Then why did you send me that text?”

 

“Because I had something important I wanted to talk to you about. If things were going badly, if I thought we needed to reconsider our relationship, I’d talk to you about it. I wouldn’t just break things off. Especially not after what…”

 

Enjolras fortunately doesn’t finish that sentence, but Grantaire can fill it in for him. Not after what happened with Grantaire’s only other real relationship.

 

“You forget,” Enjolras says, his voice gentle now. “I’ve never done this before. I do my best, but I’m going to make mistakes. Will you forgive me?”

 

“Anything,” Grantaire says, and he means it, too. If Enjolras will deign to keep him around for a while longer, there’s nothing he can’t forgive and forget. They can pretend this whole awful day never happened, they can go back to acting like Grantaire’s miserable life wouldn’t fall apart without Enjolras to hold him together. 

 

But Enjolras is frowning again. “Don’t say that. Or say it, but don’t mean it. You can’t just let me walk all over you.”

 

He can and he will, literally and/or figuratively, but he didn’t come here to fight about semantics. “All right. I forgive you in this one and only time-limited site-specific interest. This offer is non-transferrable and cannot be shared with other parties living or dead, et cetera, et cetera.”

 

That makes Enjolras laugh, at least, so that’s something. 

 

“But seriously, Enjolras, if by ‘we need to talk’ you did not mean what all human residents of planet Earth mean by that phrase, then what did you mean?”

 

Enjolras sighs heavily. The gesture makes the lock of long blonde hair curling over his cheek bounce appealingly. “Perhaps we should wait. I’ve upset you, and we should have this conversation when we are both calm, and—“

 

“Absolutely not. I will never be calm again. Better to just get it over with.” And then, dropping the sarcasm, much more gently, “I really don’t think I can bear it. The not-knowing. Will you tell me, ange? Please? It’ll help.” That’s more than a little manipulative. Enjolras can never resist an opportunity to help. But it works.

 

“Okay. Listen. This isn’t… I want to be really clear that this isn’t an ultimatum, or anything. Um. It’s your decision, and I support you. I will do everything I can to support you, one way or another. But. The doctor called earlier today.”

 

Grantaire and Enjolras are each other’s healthcare proxies, to keep everyone’s parents as far out of their business as possible. He had to sign about a million forms, but it seemed worth it. He can never keep the numbers straight, and Enjolras can. Well, it seems he’s going to live to regret _that_ decision. “And?”

 

“They have the results. From yesterday. The EKG, the lab work.”

 

Grantaire’s therapist had insisted he follow up every month with a physician as well. A waste of time and money, but he’s gone along with it between Enjolras’ cajoling and Dr. Simplice’s insistence. “So, what, am I going to die or something? You’re being awfully mysterious about this.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything, just looks pensive and distant for a moment.

 

“Oh my god, I’m going to die,” Grantaire says. “So young. It’s really tragic. What is it? Do I have a brain tumor? A second heart? Am I a medical miracle?”

 

“The, um, the results were…” And to Grantaire’s shock he hears Enjolras’ voice break. “Really, really not normal, R. I didn’t understand all the numbers but the doctor took some time to explain it to me. They said the bone loss and the brain damage is probably permanent, and based on the EKG they did, your heart, it’s, the next time you, y’know, the next time could be the last.”

 

Grantaire laughs. “Oh, don’t be dramatic.”

 

“Listen, R, please listen to me,” Enjolras says, _pleads,_ and Grantaire can hear real fear in his voice. “They said this is one of the worst cases they’ve ever seen. People die from this.”

 

“Yeah, sixteen year old girls who weigh seventy-five pounds die from this, sure. Enjolras, I get it. It seems like a big deal to you, but I’ve been doing this for years. It’s better now than it was, okay? I’m getting better. I’m okay.”

 

“Medically, that’s just not true.”

 

Grantaire wants to scream. He wants to scream swear words, and he wants to scream that it’s his body and his decision, and most of all he wants to just scream and scream and scream until Enjolras runs away and they don’t have to talk about this anymore. 

 

He _likes_ that they don’t talk about this. He talks to Dr. Simplice about it if he needs to, and even that he’d rather not. He certainly doesn’t want his weird gross habits creeping into his relationship with Enjolras (see: the only good thing in his life) and ruining that, too. He doesn’t want Enjolras worrying about him, especially based on some stupid numbers on a test that’s probably useless anyways. 

 

“I really don’t want to talk about this,” Grantaire says, firmly. “I thought you said that it was my choice, that we didn’t have to discuss it.”

 

“And we don’t. This conversation can be over, if you want it to be. There’s just one thing I have to say, if that’s okay.”

 

“Sure,” Grantaire says, because fuck him, he’s not backing down. 

 

Enjolras straightens up in his seat. “I want to ask you to consider a higher level of care.”

 

Ridiculous again, though this time he keeps himself from laughing. Therapy every other week is already more than he needs. Waste of his time and everyone else’s. 

 

“I spoke to Dr. Simplice as well. She called me when she saw your test results. She has some recommendations.”

 

“I could see her every week, I guess,” Grantaire relents. Anything to end this conversation. 

 

“She wants to see you tomorrow. To talk things over. Will you go? Please? I won’t push anything else until you’ve seen her, just, please, think about it.”

 

“All right,” Grantaire mumbles, annoyed with himself for it. Annoyed at Enjolras too, not to mention the entire world.

 

He was looking forward to work tomorrow. To his routine, such as it is. He doesn’t want to go see the fucking psychiatrist and get nagged about things he already knows. Bla bla bla, making yourself throw up is bad for your health. What else is new. 

 

Grantaire has had a lot of unhealthy habits in his life. This isn’t even the worst, not by far.

 

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, and the look on his perfect face is so tremendously relieved that Grantaire drops whatever argument he was going to make next. “Can I get you anything?”

 

“Black coffee,” Grantaire requests, and tries not to notice Enjolras’ expression as he stirs packet after packet of Splenda into the cup. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! With a depressing therapy chapter. 
> 
> There won't be as long a wait for the next one, I promise.
> 
> No explicit mention of particular behaviors in this chapter, but there is a lot of denial and unhealthy thoughts.

Enjolras goes with him to the appointment, as usual. He appreciates it, of course. But he doesn’t want Enjolras in there. Not when he’s already… well. Grantaire wouldn’t say that he’s overstepped, exactly. He believes that Enjolras really is acting out of concern for him. It’s just misplaced, and he’ll lay it to rest by the end of the day. Maybe it would be better to do that with Dr. Simplice’s help, but he wants to talk to her, make sure she understands how ridiculous Enjolras is being. 

Besides, he’s going to have words with her. She shouldn’t be talking about whatever minor problem there was with his tests to Enjolras like that. He’s bound to overreact like this, it’s in his nature. 

“Will you wait out here?” Grantaire asks Enjolras. 

A fleeting expression passes across his perfect face. Attuned as Grantaire is to the slightest of his boyfriend’s moods, he can recognize anger, at least irritation. But his tone is perfectly pleasant when he answers. Which means Enjolras is upset and trying to hide it, which he's not very good at, especially when the ongoing disaster that is Project Save Grantaire From Himself isn't going as well as Enjolras would like. It doesn't give Grantaire quite the pleasure that pissing Enjolras off usually would, for some reason. “Of course.”

He finds the one comfortable chair in the waiting room and takes a stray book out of his bag, looking for all the world like he actually doesn't mind. The fact is, he has a right to be annoyed. It’s not Grantaire's proudest moment, but he is definitely punishing Enjolras a little for dragging him here. Well, he'll make it up to Enjolras. He has his ways. 

Dr. Simplice treats him to the frosty smile he gets at the beginning of every session. “Just you today?”

“Yes.” He doesn't offer elaboration. Of course, her whole job is to push him to talk about things he'd rather not talk about. 

“I want to return to that, but first, why I asked you to come here.”

“You want me to come weekly?”

She shakes her head. “I want to have you admitted to the hospital.”

“What?”

“My colleague, Dr. Myriel, suggested I should have you put on an involuntary hold. I won't do that, mostly because we both know it won't do a damn bit of good. But it's very obvious that you've passed the ‘danger to yourself’ threshold some time ago.”

“Why will no one listen when I say that I'm fine?”

“Because you aren't,” she says with a flat tone in her voice. “The only reason I'm not having you sectioned is because in adult patients it does more harm than good. That's what the evidence shows. You can't be held indefinitely without your consent or a court orders and you'll check yourself out the very minute you can out of sheer stubbornness, we both know that. So I won't have you admitted forcibly, but I want to be very clear that's not because I couldn't. You are a danger to yourself, Grantaire, and if you continue to stall on pursuing meaningful treatment, you will die.”

He wouldn't mind that so much, he thinks glumly. 

“I see you're not sure that would be such a bad thing. So let me ask you a question.”

He nods. That is her job, after all. 

“Is your life worth living?”

Only a few months ago he would not have been sure. But now he has friends and a job he loves and Enjolras. 

“I can't see the future, but I can promise you that if you continue as you have been, you will lose first your relationship and then your life.”

“I see we're going in for the big melodrama today.”

“Oh, no, this isn't some personal attack on you. This is science-based medicine about the disease you have. You've had it for years, you're entering the terminal stages, and you're not seeking help.”

“It's not cancer.”

“No, it's not. If you had cancer, I assume you wouldn't be arguing with me about whether or not you need to see a doctor. Then again, maybe you would be.” She sighs. “Let's try this a different way. You remember the list we've been working on?”

“Yes.” The whole thing feels painfully stupid. What kind of idiot needs the help of a professional to figure out what he wants from life?

“Lets go ahead and get that out, then.”

Grantaire does. 

“Why don't you read me a few of the items from your list? The greatest hits, as it were.”

“Sure.” He clears his throat, reading a few of the items over before he begins to speak. Dr. simplice had asked him not to bother with realism, not to worry as he wrote about what was and wasn't possible. Just what he wanted. “Um, to be a good partner to Enjolras and make him happy. To have a family one day. To be a success as an artist-not, like, financially, but just to make things that people like and want to look at. To be a good friend, someone people can count on-“

“Thank you,” she says. “I think that gives us a good sense. Now, tell me, do you think the items on that list are well-served by your current choices?”

“Sorry?”

“If you continue on just as you are, which of those goals do you think you'll be able to achieve? Let's start with the first. Do you think you're a good partner to Enjolras?”

If that isn't the most uncomfortable question he's ever been asked in his life… “I think so?”

“And can you tell me where the hesitation is coming from?”

“He has to worry about me a lot. I wish he didn't.”

“He has to worry about you when…?”

“Well, he's wasting his time sitting here, isn't he?” Grantaire blurts.

“So would you say that your eating disorder is standing in the way of your goal of being a good partner?”

That sure feels like a twisting of what he said. “More that being here is, actually,” he says, once again being difficult on purpose. Because no one will listen to him when he says he doesn't need pity or help or anything he can't do for himself and damnit, he can not listen at all. 

Dr. Simplice frowns slightly. “So if you weren't attempting recovery at all, that would be better? If you had to hide this from Enjolras, and everyone else?”

He thinks about his old apartment, about the green-grey tile on the bathroom floor, about insisting to Enjolras that he just needed his own space, about how good it feels to wake up next to him every morning. “I guess not,” he has to admit. They wouldn’t get to live together if he hadn’t decided to try to be better. He’s thought before about how glad he is that he came clean about his problem, even if it’s only so that he can be closer to Enjolras. And yet he also isn’t sure he can stand this pressure to give up his… well, whatever it is. His maladaptive coping mechanism, Dr. Simplice would say. He’s not sure that’s accurate—he knows it isn’t good for him, obviously, but it’s a lot healthier than drinking himself into unconsciousness, and that’s pretty much the only alternative. If he could just make the doctors—and Enjolras—see that, they’d leave him be about the occasional skipped meal. 

“I'm going to be honest with you. I hope you believe that I always have been. It is my sincere belief as a professional that if you don't seek serious help soon, your disease will progress rapidly. You will push away first your friends, and then Enjolras, as you've done in the past. You'll either create that distance yourself because your disorder won't allow you to be around the people that want you to fight back against it, or they won't be able to stand watching you die slowly and they will walk away. You'll lose your job-i know you don't have a boss to fire you, but you won't have the energy to work. You'll lose your creativity, and eventually you won't have the physical strength to lift a paintbrush. If that's what you want, feel free to tell me to drop this.”

“Come on. No one ever says yes to that question.”

“You'd be surprised. Plenty of my patients are actively suicidal. For them, the eating disorder becomes a race toward death, a way of deferring the pleasures of life as well as its troubles. I get the sense that that's not the case for you. You can enjoy your life—you want to. Am I right?”

Always, annoyingly. “I guess.”

“I want that for you as well. And the path you're on currently doesn't end with much joy, I'm sorry to tell you. If it did, you wouldn't have an eating disorder.”

That phrase has always seemed melodramatic to Grantaire, even embarrassing. He never calls it that, but for some reason he can’t seem to get the doctor to call it anything else. Even “disordered eating” wouldn’t be seem so excessive. “But I live with it just fine. And it's been so much better since I started seeing you. I can keep it under control.”

“Hide it, you mean.” She hesitates, drumming her fingers on the side of her chair. Dr. Simplice rarely fidgets. “Grantaire, when was your last episode of binge eating?”

He thinks back. “Um, it's been a while.” Admittedly, to him the sandwich and cookie he had for lunch feels like a binge, but objectively… “probably before I moved in with Enjolras. So like, eight months.” He smiles, realizing it only as he's said it. “That's good, right? I’m making progress.” Further evidence that the current situation is just fine. 

She sighs. “In some patients, it would be. But binging has never been primary for you, as we both know. It's a reactive symptom-your body overrides your brain, forces you to consume as many calories as you can find, and if you're lucky it's enough to keep you alive. Without that extra, you're having trouble sustaining things like a regular heartbeat and kidney function. I just want to be sure you understand me, even if you're in denial.”

He would say that he's not in denial, but that sounds exactly like something someone who is in denial would say, so he just frowns. “I understand. I don't agree, but I understand.”

“That's a first step. Now, let's talk about what happens next.”

“Okay.”

“My recommendation is that you immediately admit yourself to a hospital for medical stabilization and then plan to take between 3 and 6 months off work to undergo full time residential treatment. Ideally, you would also step down down to a partial hospitalization level of care for a further few months.” She says all this in a perfectly flat and even tone of voice, like she’s not being completely ridiculous, though she does continue, “it sounds like you're not willing to do that.”

“I'm not,” he says. Whether it’s a confession or a challenge, he’s not sure. 

“I want to meet with you weekly. You'll also see the doctor every week. You'll log everything you eat, honestly. If you're not eating at least one decent meal a day, or if your levels don't approve, you'll be admitted whether you like it or not. This is to save your life.”

“And what if I don't do any of that?”

“Then it is my professional obligation to terminate our clinical relationship. Therapy can be as destructive as it is helpful. If all you're doing here is learning coping mechanisms that allow you to hide your disorder from others, then I'm hurting, not helping. I won't be implicated in that. To be clear, I won't watch you die.”

“Wait,” Grantaire asks, panic blooming in his chest. “So you’re, what, you’re breaking up with me? I’m being dumped by my therapist?”

“I can give you another three sessions with which to consider the pros and cons of seeking a higher level of care, and a further two sessions to transition out of treatment. I know that comes as a surprise, and I’m sorry that you clearly feel shocked by this information. Unfortunately, it is a professional obligation that I am under. Right now, my knowledge is only doing harm. We won’t proceed under these circumstances.”

“Seriously? That’s it?”

“That’s it. I want you to take until next week to think about it. For now, let’s talk about what’s happening with you and Enjolras, shall we?”

“I don’t want to,” he grumbles, sounding childish even to his own ears. 

“Why is he waiting outside, instead of in here as usual? Are the two of you fighting?”

“I said I’d rather not talk about it,” Grantaire repeats, stubbornly.

“What would you like to talk about, then? We have—“ she glances at the clock— “five more minutes.” 

“What could I do?” Grantaire says. “What would convince you that this, all of this, isn’t necessary?”

She pauses for a moment, considering. “At this point? Nothing. I know that you’re capable of performing normal behavior for a limited amount of time, but that won’t save your life. And more than that… I want you to have all the things you want, all the things on that list you’ve been working on. That won’t happen unless you make some pretty serious changes. Permanent changes. I know that in the past, you’ve made a habit of setting yourself up to fail.”

Yes, because Grantaire had told her about the disaster that his apprenticeship with Gros had become, like an idiot. And about his failed attempts at dating before Enjolras, and about his miserable two-month stint in university, and about his multiple half-assed attempts to reconcile with his horrible parents. It’s true, he has a serious problem with sabotaging himself with everything good that comes his way. But he would know if he were doing that again. He isn’t, obviously. He’s just trying to get through the days and keep the monster that lives in his head quiet enough that he can enjoy the good when it comes. 

“Think about what I’ve said today, and take a look at this list of programs.” She hands him a handwritten sheet of paper with a half-dozen names. “Your homework for next time is to make a four-part pros and cons list. You’ve done this before.”

He has. It’s tedious work, listing the points against and for either option, but at least he knows what he’s doing. 

“We’ll go over that next week.”

“In two weeks.”

“Next week. Can you come at this time?”

Defeated, Grantaire sighs, “All right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don't know, being cut from therapy is a thing that can really happen. I'm very dubious about the whole practice, but I've seen a lot of friends be basically fired by their therapists for "non-compliance."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few extra content notes for this chapter:
> 
> Some actual "onstage" restrictive eating, though it's not severe. Mention of particular foods, not calories or other numbers. 
> 
> There's sex in this chapter, y'all. Explicit, reasonably kinky sex. That's arguably not super duper healthy. Stop at "or something" if you'd rather not read 2k words about these guys fuckin' on the couch.

Enjolras leans in close, kissing away a spot of strawberry juice that had collected under Grantaire’s lower lip. He’d managed to finish five of them, plus a slice of dry toast, for breakfast. The new plan—eating three times a day, even if Enjolras frowns at how little it is—is going pretty well. 

“What are you going to do for lunch?”

And the check-ins. They make a plan for every meal they’ll be apart for, and Enjolras wants to know how it went, if it was easy, if it was hard, if Grantaire did what he said he was going to do. He never seems angry when the answer is no, at least. That helps. But it doesn’t make Grantaire like this any more. “The usual. Sandwich and a soda.” These foods have become relatively safe out of familiarity. There are a million boulangeries around Paris that sell a set menu of sandwich, soda, pastry. He usually brings the pastry back for Enjolras. It’s easy, cheap, and he knows what his options will be. It diminishes the worry, at least somewhat. 

“Great. Will you text me? Let me know how it goes?”

Grantaire agrees to that. That’s because Grantaire is an idiot. When Enjolras asks for things, he says yes, even if he shouldn’t. Even if he should remember to set the expectations real low, so that Enjolras won’t expect more than he can get from Grantaire. 

Enjolras kisses him again, though, which does tend to make him forget what he ought to be doing and focus on whatever path of action will lead to him getting to kiss Enjolras more. 

“Have a great day,” Grantaire says. “I’ll see you around five?”

“Sounds good. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Grantaire answers, still not quite believing his luck that he’s allowed to, and he goes off to work. 

He’s painting today, which could be where the problem starts. Probably, he should have gone to the stand and tried to sell some books, because painting involves being alone in his own head which isn’t always a recipe for success. 

Today, it definitely isn’t. He’s working on one of his few-and-far-between Serious Pieces. More often, now, he just paints whatever pops into his head. He does portraits for tourists, paints schlocky paintings of the Seine and the Eiffel Tower, and sells them for a few euros a piece. He’s given up on the notion of becoming a serious artist. He had a brush with success in college, and he was too fucking dysfunctional to make it work even when he had the opportunity. It’s better for him not to even bother. 

But Éponine knows someone who has a café that puts art on display, and for sale, and she’s gotten him a spot there, and it’s a café frequented by the kind of people who have art-commissioning levels of disposable income apparently, sand so he’s painting something that people will look at and associate with his name and that’s supposed to be avant-garde and kind of cool. Éponine told him he could do anything he wanted, as long as it’s not another painting of Enjolras. He frowned at her for that, and she shrugged. 

“My connection, my rules. And my rules are, man, you gotta stop painting your boyfriend. All right? Branch out a little.”

“No fair,” he sighed, but he can admit now that she was probably right. Enjolras had been his favorite subject long before they started dating. Now that they’re together, portraits of him are practically a monomania with Grantaire. It’ll be good for him to do something else. Prove that he still can. Or whatever. 

He used to do a lot of abstracts, so he decides to do a black-and-gray large-scale composition. 

He’s settled on a composition, but he can’t quite get the texture in the bottom corner to look the way he wants. It’s a frustrating morning, his concentration broken only when his phone dings. 

He notices the time first. It’s nearly three in the afternoon. The text, of course, is from Enjolras. “Just checking in! How’s it going, love?” it reads, and Grantaire sighs.

How he’s gotten himself in bed, literally and figuratively, with such a crew of optimists is an ongoing mystery. Enjolras always assumes the best, even of Grantaire, which is not a safe assumption to make, of course. 

“Lost track of time. Headed out for lunch now,” Grantaire texts back, and gets a string of smiley emojis in response so long that he actually rolls his eyes even though he knows Enjolras can’t see him. 

It makes him feel all kinds of ashamed and twisty inside that the smartest, most ambitious, most capable person he knows spends so much time worrying about what Grantaire eats or doesn’t. It’s a waste of Enjolras’ time—Grantaire is a waste of Enjolras’ time. It’s not so much the dread that sooner or later Enjolras will figure that out that gets to Grantaire. It’s the worry that maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll just keep wasting his time on Grantaire indefinitely. 

He leaves his rented workspace (it’s less a studio, more a corner of a semi-vacant warehouse building) and heads around the corner, to the familiar boulangerie. That’s the easiest way for him to face the problem of lunch—pick a set menu, eat everything he’s handed, and then text Enjolras a thumbs up. He’d rather avoid the whole thing entirely, but it’s only another two days before he sees Dr. Simplice again. If he can keep to this stupid three meals a day thing, maybe he can convince her to drop the idea of sending him away for treatment and he can keep seeing her. 

He gets a jambon et beurre and a Diet Coke and eats standing at the boulangerie’s counter. He stares straight ahead, not looking at the food, not letting himself think about it. If he starts counting the calories or the fat, he’ll be lost, especially with a sandwich, which isn’t the easiest food for him to manage. Instead, he thinks about how much he doesn’t want to have to leave Enjolras, how much he wants to prove that he can be normal and fine and doesn’t need help. 

When he’s eaten three-quarters of the sandwich, which he judges as sufficient, he texts Enjolras “Done! How’s your day going?”

They text back and forth for a while before Grantaire has to head back to his painting, along with a warning to Enjolras that he’ll probably be home late. 

The work goes much better after his lunch, though. It’s funny, although he was nervous about the actual act of eating it, the food seems to have sharpened his thinking a little. He manages to get the texture issue sorted out, and heads home around 5:30. It’s a bit of a walk back to the apartment, but he enjoys it, the streets busy with other people returning from work. Grantaire is able to blend into the crowd, tugging his beanie down low on his head so he gets even less notice. No one looks at him or says anything to him, which is just how he likes it.

And when he gets home, Enjolras is waiting for him, which he likes even more. 

Enjolras kisses him. “I’m so proud of you, love. I know it’s hard, but you’re doing so well.”

“It’s just lunch,” Grantaire mumbles, more embarrassed than pleased by the praise. But not unpleased. 

“Dinner at seven?”

“That was the agreement.” Grantaire sighs. “But can we do something else for a while? Please?” It’s starting to weigh too heavily on him. If he keeps thinking about all he’s eaten today and all he’ll have to eat tomorrow and on and on, he’ll get overwhelmed and he’ll fail at dinner. 

“Sure. Do you want to talk about your work? Or we could see a movie or something?”

“Or something,” Grantaire suggests, raising an eyebrow.

He would never tell Enjolras this, not in a million years, but it’s actually been a while since he was interested in sex for sex’s sake. That fact is pretty high up on his personal list of ‘secrets to take to his grave,’ since he’s pretty sure Enjolras would not be impressed with Grantaire’s reasoning.

Grantaire just sucks at explaining himself, that’s the thing. If he could make Enjolras see things the way he does, there wouldn’t be a problem. 

He likes having sex with Enjolras. He really, really likes it. He gets off spectacularly all the time (except on those memorable occasions when Enjolras doesn’t permit it). He loves the intimacy. The submission. The pleasure. 

It’s just that, a few months ago, his sex drive seems to have taken a long walk off a short pier, as it were. He used to be a pretty sexual person, with a lot of fantasies (mostly Enjolras related). These days, he just doesn’t seem to have the energy. He’s not sure why. 

But he doesn’t want Enjolras to notice the difference. So he still initiates, and just waits for his body to catch up. It usually doesn’t take too long, especially when Enjolras is in a particularly dominant mood, which, to Grantaire’s delight, he seems to be. 

“What do you mean?” Enjolras says, a tone of faux innocence in his voice. 

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“Mmm.” Enjolras scoots a little closer to him on the couch, leaning into Grantaire’s personal space. He kisses his neck, then murmurs in his ear, “If there’s something you want, you should ask me for it nicely.”

That sends a hot wave of longing through Grantaire’s body, from his heart straight down to his groin. He knew it wouldn’t take much. But he no longer folds quite so easily at the first sign of dominance from Enjolras. He likes to tease him a bit first. “See, here’s the thing. I was sort of hoping there was something you want, and that you might take it.”

“Oh?” Now Enjolras is biting down slightly as he kisses back down Grantaire’s neck. “What’s that?”

“Me,” Grantaire says, and it’s meant to sound fun and playful but it comes out as a moan. 

“What an appealing offer. And so eloquently made, too.”

Grantaire wants to tell him not to make fun, but he’s the one who started it, so he guesses he shouldn’t complain. Besides, it’s hard to remember what he meant to complain about when Enjolras has shifted over to straddle Grantaire and is kissing him hard. His hands shift up automatically, towards his usual favorite spot of twining in Enjolras’ hair, but Enjolras grabs his wrists, (oh, all right, Enjolras would never actually grab his wrists because of the danger of nerve damage and so on but his internal monologue doesn’t have time to say “the area of forearm closest to, but not actually including, his wrists), pinning his hands down at his side, and Grantaire goes from pleasantly interested to painfully turned on in a second. 

“Ask for it,” Enjolras says, his voice harsh and demanding now instead of teasingly playful. He’s just centimeters from Grantaire’s lips, staring at them like he can’t wait to go back to claiming Grantaire’s mouth. 

Grantaire has a serious love/hate relationship with being made to beg. On the one hand, it really turns him on. On the other hand, it fills him with shame. On the third, most confusing hand, the shame itself somehow becomes arousing. “I want…” he takes a moment, swallowing hard, before he can find the words to continue. “I want you to fuck me. Please.”

“Is that all?”

Bastard. “No. I want you to tell me what to do. To dominate me. Please.”

“I think,” Enjolras murmurs, leaning in for a kiss that would be gentle if not for the way his fingers dig into Grantaire’s wrists, “that can be arranged.”

Grantaire kisses him back, furiously, before Enjolras breaks away to give him his orders. 

“Stay nice and still for me, R. Don’t move your hands. I’m going to let go, but I want you to stay right where I’ve put you. Understand?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire replies breathlessly. 

“Good.” Enjolras gives his wrists one last firm squeeze, and then lets go.

At once, his hands are on the button of Grantaire’s shirt. He undoes them one at a time, stopping after each to press his lips to a newly revealed patch of skin. Grantaire gasps at the first touch of Enjolras’ warm lips to his skin, but then tries to get himself under control. That doesn’t last long, since soon Enjolras’ fingers are twisting at one of his nipples. 

“I want to hear you, R.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, and it’s supposed to sound teasing, but it doesn’t come out that way at all, and he’s blushing, because they haven’t talked, haven’t really talked about this, not since the beginning. 

But all Enjolras says is, “I like that.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire asks, and he knows it’s kind of stupid but he needs the reassurance. 

“You should call me that,” Enjolras muses, pinning Grantaire’s jaw in place with a firm hand and kissing him. “Whenever you’d like, whenever we’re like this if you want. Okay?”

Grantaire just groans, and Enjolras grins the way he does when he’s pleased with how a scene is going. It still blows Grantaire’s mind how much Enjolras likes this. He was a virgin when they started dating, and Grantaire had no more than an inkling that he would turn into such a top. But even though he’d sort of guessed what Enjolras would be into, he had no idea how much Enjolras would enjoy doing any of this… especially not how much he would enjoy doing this stuff to Grantaire, particularly. 

Now Enjolras’ hands are pinning him in place, one tangled in his hair, one at his throat. He holds him still, not choking him, just holding him, and kisses him for a long, long time. The pressure at his neck is just noticeable, just enough that he couldn’t move out of Enjolras’ grip, if he wanted to, which he never would. 

Enjolras bites at his lips, which are starting to feel sore and swollen, and then moves to his neck, leaving sharp bites there as well. Grantaire can hear the trail of high, desperate noises coming from his own mouth. He’d be embarrassed if he weren’t so aroused. Enjolras’ teeth tug at his ear next, and Enjolras whispers to him, “I love you so much. I hope you know that,” kissing Grantaire hard again before he has to answer. 

They’re pressed so close like this, body to body, chest to chest, and even though Grantaire is still clothed except for his open shirt, he can feel the heat of Enjolras pressing into him. 

Then the hand in his hair is roaming over his body, touching his chest, his neck, pinching his nipples hard, trailing affectionately down his stomach. Grantaire is too far gone to mind the way he sometimes does. He lets his head fall back, pushing his throat into Enjolras’ grip, his mouth going slack for Enjolras’ tongue to plunder. 

That seems to be what Enjolras was waiting for, as he pushes Grantaire flat against the sofa. He rearranges Grantaire’s hands so they’re crossed above his head and then undoes his pants, leaving him completely naked while Enjolras is still fully clothed. 

“You look so fucking hot,” Enjolras says, and his mouth is back on Grantaire’s before Grantaire has anything to say about it. “Roll over.”

He does what he’s told. It’s a little difficult without using his hands, but he manages. When he’s in place, he feels briefly ridiculous—naked and ass up on the couch. It doesn’t last long, since Enjolras’ hand is soon landing hard on his bare ass. He hears it more than he feels it, but that’s no longer true by the third blow, and Enjolras just keeps spanking him, intense and constant and so, so good. It doesn’t hurt much, just spreads incredible warmth all over his bare skin. 

When it crosses the threshhold into pain, Grantaire gasps, loudly, and Enjolras must know, because he switches to smoothing his hands over the reddened skin, only occasionally digging his fingertips in hard enough to hurt. Grantaire hides his face in the arm of the couch, unable to bear how good it feels. 

There’s a click, and then Enjolras’ cool, wet fingers pressing at his entrance. They keep lube hidden more or less everywhere in the apartment, to the surprise and disgust (almost everyone) or delight (Courfeyrac) of their friends. They just get caught up like this too frequently to only keep it in the bedroom.

Enjolras slides what feels like two fingers into him with no resistance, pressing a kiss to Grantaire’s shoulder as he does. He’s efficient in opening him up, thorough but quick. When he decides Grantaire has had enough, he pulls his hand out and spanks him with it. 

“Oh,” Grantaire says, dazed. 

The hand comes down a half-dozen more times, and then suddenly it stops and the heat of Enjolras’ body is over Grantaire and Enjolras is pushing inside him. 

Grantaire can’t control the noises spilling out of his mouth, can’t stop himself from fucking back desperately against Enjolras. He doesn’t get far, since he has almost no leverage from this position. Mostly what he can do is lie there and let Enjolras thrust into him, let Enjolras use him.

This is what he likes. This is what’s still worth it, what’s worth ignoring the discomfort of being naked, what’s worth overcoming his lack of desire. Being here, like this, exposed and vulnerable and knowing that he is giving something to Enjolras that no one else can. That Enjolras chooses him, out of everyone, to share this with, to make his. 

Enjolras groans Grantaire’s name as he comes. They lie there for a moment, Enjolras sweaty and spent above him, Grantaire still desperately hard against the couch. 

“What do you want?” Enjolras asks, the edge of dominance still in his voice. He’s amazing at that, at keeping it going even after he’s come. Grantaire is usually pretty much a lump afterwards. 

“Make me come, sir, please, please, I need it, I can’t wait, please,” he says, not even aware, really, of the fact that he sounds pathetic and pleading. 

“How can I say no to that?” Enjolras says, and then he’s moving off Grantaire, tragically, but luckily, pushing him back to sitting, and finally, finally touching his cock. 

He comes almost at once, the confident grip of Enjolras’ fingers and his knowing smile enough to push him over the edge even if he weren’t teetering on it already. 

“Fucking shit,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras laughs his agreement, collapsing on the couch next to him and pulling him in close. Enjolras is always a cuddler after sex, and Grantaire approves fully of that. He lies there in a happy, sated haze, Enjolras’ arm around his shoulder, his head buried in Enjolras’ chest, for several long moments. 

“I was going to say we should go out tonight, but…”

“If you make me put pants on, I’m breaking up with you,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras laughs. 

“My thought exactly. Shall we order a pizza? I’ll get up and get it, you won’t have to move at all.”

Now that sounds appealing. “You’re too good to me, Ange.”

“I’m really not,” Enjolras replies, and then, “You deserve it.”

Grantaire would argue with that, but he’s too happy, resting peacefully against Enjolras’ warmth, to say anything at all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra warnings for this chapter: self-blame, anxiety, mention of suicide, explicit description of purging, some sex fantasies, medical stuff.

Waking up next to Enjolras is one of those things he never gets used to. He would’ve expected his mornings to generally start in a cold, empty bed, with Enjolras having already set out to save the world, or whatever else it is he does all day long. 

This is… not the case.

“Nooooo, R,” Enjolras mumbles when Grantaire tries to get up. He rolls over and throws an arm around Grantaire’s waist, effectively pinning him to the bed. 

Grantaire smiles, leaning close to kiss Enjolras on the cheek. “Good morning, sunshine.”

“’s not morning.”

“Yes it is. Almost nine. C’mon.” Grantaire is not what one would traditionally call a morning person, but his erratic schedule means there are rare days where he’s pretty much ready to get up and face the world around a normal getting-up time. Conversely, there is never a day when Enjolras wants to wake up anytime before, like, three P.M. That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t, but it does mean that Grantaire gets to enjoy the morning ritual of tormenting him. It’s always very endearing to watch him grumble and moan and try to hide his face so Grantaire won’t make him get out of bed. 

“Why do we have to?”

“Because there’s work to do. You’re supposed to be having strategic coffee with Combeferre in like twenty minutes, love.”

“I can think of something else I’d rather do for the next twenty minutes,” Enjolras says, but the fact that he’s still totally flat against the bed slightly takes the innuendo out of the words. 

“Breakfast in bed?” Grantaire suggests as an alternative. 

“You’re too good to me.”

“Impossible.” He kisses Enjolras on the cheek and gets up to make them both some breakfast. All in all, it’s a pretty good start to the day.

When they’ve finished their coffees, Enjolras is fully alert, while Grantaire is still thinking longingly about blowing off work and getting back into bed. This, too, is quite usual for the two of them. 

Enjolras hops up and gets dressed, while Grantaire leans back on the pillows. He’s feeling a little off this morning, come to think of it. Nothing he can put his finger on. Maybe a little light-headed, although that doesn’t make sense. He hasn’t been drinking as much recently, and he’d eaten a normal amount at dinner last night, almost as much as Enjolras (who he’s guessing has a congenitally huge appetite or something) ate. Maybe he’s coming down with something, or maybe it’s just one of those weird quirks of his body, like the funny rush he gets when he stands up too fast or having double-jointed toes. 

His morning reverie is broken by Enjolras’ voice. “You all right, love?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling at Enjolras, who is wearing a profoundly concerned expression and nothing else. “Just enjoying the show.”

“You look a little pale. Sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. You worry too much.” 

“I worry,” Enjolras says, now wearing a sweater and jeans as he crosses over to Grantaire to kiss him gently on the lips, “exactly the appropriate amount. You don’t take care of yourself.”

“So what, that’s your job?”

“As much as you’ll let me.”

Grantaire wants to bristle at that, but he can’t. It’s just so damn nice to have Enjolras care so much. He’s so happy. He wishes he could get them all to understand that. Sure, he’s still a little crazy. He probably always will be. But he’s also happy for the first time he can remember. He doesn’t want to change anything, doesn’t want to let anything change, if it means he might have to risk losing this. “Go. Have your coffee. Save the world, or what have you.”

“I love you, R.”

“I love you too.”

When Enjolras is out the door, Grantaire starts trying to get ready for his own day. It’s hard to drag himself out of the outrageously comfortable bed (Enjolras has a thing for pillows, so they have a lot, and he washes the sheets every weekend). He manages, though.

That damned abstract piece is just about finished. If he can get it done today, he’ll be able to take the weekend properly off, focus on spending time with Enjolras. Not that Enjolras will necessarily have a lot of time himself, but still. Grantaire has been too busy lately, between all the doctors and work, to do the kind of Enjolras-spoiling he usually tries to prioritize. It will be nice to have some downtime to make him a meal, rub his back if he gets a headache, maybe kneel under his desk and get him off. That’s a good fantasy. He’ll suggest that, maybe. Enjolras is always happy when Grantaire asks for something in particular, even though Grantaire’s preferred anxiety-reduction strategy around sex is just to want something at his partner until Enjolras manages to guess. 

The happy fantasy of spending tomorrow kneeling at Enjolras’ feet, or possibly of telling Enjolras about the aforesaid fantasy this evening and being pinned against the wall, distracts Grantaire for the rest of his walk to the studio. He is humming to himself as he arrives and starts working, but as soon as he stretches his arm out to touch the paintbrush to the canvas, he’s distracted by a sudden sharp pain in his shoulder and chest. It feels like he’s pulled a muscle or something, but stronger and worse. 

He stands there for a moment, breathing in through his nose while he waits for the pain to pass. Luckily, that happens quickly enough, and he can go back to his painting. It was the weirdest fucking thing, but after twenty-six years of the shit he’s put his body through, he’s pretty used to random and unexplained twinges. They just kind of happen. 

Besides, the important thing for today is getting this damn piece finished, which he will. 

It’s going well. The composition is entirely abstract, a study in monotones and textures. It’s different than the usual thing he does. Grantaire is something of an old-fashioned painter, usually. Lots of classical influences, grand portraits, even a toga every now and then. That sort of thing. He’s a little impressed with himself that he’s able to pull off something so different, which makes for a nice change from his usual state of ‘totally disgusted with himself.’ He’s even somewhat happy with the way the painting is shaping up, and it’s going to be on display.

He dismisses that thought, though. If he starts worrying about what it’s going to look like hanging on the wall, about what everyone who passes through the café in the next six months or whatever is going to think of his artwork and by extension him as a person, he’s going to panic, and panicking is not conducive to getting this done (or to his long-term goal of convincing his boyfriend and his therapist that he is a normal, stable, non-crazy individual who doesn’t need to be shipped off to the loony bin and can function quasi-normally in society or whatever). It’s all about staying in the moment. That’s his new philosophy. Grantaire the calm. Grantaire the grounded. Grantaire the productive. 

Yeah, right.

Even he knows that it’s only a matter of time before he goes off the rails again. This whole working all day, going home to boyfriend at night, domesticity, regular meals, drinking in moderation thing is a joke. He loves it, he’s always secretly wanted it, but it’s just not the lifestyle of someone like him. He’ll always be out of place, like a picture pasted onto a perfect collage. He’ll never belong in this new life. 

He shakes off that thought. He has to stop obsessing about the future. He’s told himself repeatedly, listen, R, you idiot, enjoy it while it lasts. You’re going to lose it sooner or later, so just let it be good while it’s good.

And usually he can. It’s just sometimes, while he’s working, he gets a little lost in his thoughts. But he’s back on track before too long. He’s pretty sure he’s going to finish the whole painting today and be able to show it to Éponine tomorrow morning. He hopes she’ll like it, at least enough to still show it to her friend who has the gallery opening. Probably she will, since Éponine is too nice—though she’d never describe herself that way—to promise him something and then not follow through. 

She’s a good friend. Grantaire is blessed with a lot of good friends, which is just one more thing he doesn’t deserve. 

He puts in two solid hours of work before the alarm on his phone beeps. One PM, sandwich hour. With a sigh, he sets down the brush and leaves the studio behind. Some fresh air will do him good, anyways, in spite of the grey weather. 

He doesn’t feel better when he’s outside, though. Actually, he feels kind of drifty and out of it, like he had this morning. And as he starts to walk, he can feel his heart racing too fast in his chest. It’s a weird, unfamiliar feeling. Christ, he really is out of shape. A walk around the block is making him feel like he’s about to faint. He should start working out or something, except that he pretty obviously does not have the necessary self-control to stick to an exercise regime. So instead he’ll keep doing all the nothing he’s been doing and hate himself for it. Excellent, it’s a plan. 

He orders the same set menu as usual. Today he gets a chicken sandwich and a bottle of water. There are tartes aux chocolates just being placed in the pastry case, with perfect swirls of white chocolate across their tops, so he takes one for after, too, and actually eats it for once. It’s good, sweet and rich in a perfectly crunchy tart shell. He licks the last of the chocolate off the corner of his lips and walks back to the studio.

Once he’s there, though, he can’t focus. His lunch is sitting too heavily in his stomach. He’s not used to having dessert on top of everything else, and it makes him feel hazy and tired. 

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.

He promised Enjolras he’d call him before he purged. He couldn’t promise that he wouldn’t, because he isn’t going to make a promise to the man he loves if he’s not absolutely sure that he can keep it. But he thought he could handle telling Enjolras beforehand. Now he’s not totally sure he can. 

It’s just so embarrassing. He knows he shouldn’t do it. Blah blah blah, risking his health, cardiovascular, whatever. And it’s gross. He’ll smell like vomit all day. There are a million good reasons not to, and not one good reason to do it, except this: he wants to.

He really fucking wants to.

Which is terrible and shameful but he’s standing in the studio and he’s the only one working today and his stomach feels like it’s made of lead and his heart is pounding in his chest and he just wants to. He wants that moment of perfect blankness. He wants the slick smooth feeling of his stomach doubling over and everything rising up. 

He blinks back a tear. He hadn’t realized he was crying, but it makes sense. Of course he’s crying over the shit he does to himself. He’s a mess. 

He texts Enjolras. Just, “I’m sorry. I’m gonna do that thing I said I wasn’t going to do. Don’t try to talk me out of it. And try not to worry. Sorry.” He hits the send button before he can back out of it like the coward he is and puts his phone down. 

He’s the only one working today, so there’s no risk of anyone hearing him. He goes into the bathroom and closes the door, hearing the click of the lock behind him. He pulls his hair back, tying it up in a loose bun, and bends over. He can hear his heart pounding in his chest, probably with excitement—relief is so close. He opens his mouth, sliding his index finger in and all the way back.

It happens all at once. His stomach rolls over as he gags. The half-digested food, thick and brown, starts to come up. And a lancing, crushing pain stabs through the whole upper half of his body, centering on the left side of his chest. 

He slides down to the ground, wiping his dirty hand on his jeans, suddenly too exhausted to stand. It’s not the first time he’s been fatigued after purging, but the terrible, burning pain in his chest is new. He thought sitting would make him feel better, but it doesn’t. He can hear his own breath, rough and gasping, as he tries to get back up, at least enough to clean himself off. It’s the kind of pain that closes his mind down, the kind of pain that makes it impossible to think about anything at all except how badly it hurts. Which is very, very badly indeed. 

Then there’s a loud knock on the door. “R? R, are you in there?”

It’s Enjolras. After Grantaire specifically told him not to worry, too.

Maybe if he’s quiet, Enjolras will assume he’s gone somewhere else to do the deed and just go away. There’s no way he has the strength to clean up fast enough to hide the evidence, and he doesn’t want Enjolras to see him like this, slumped on the floor and covered in his own vomit. It’s bad enough that Enjolras knows that this kind of thing happens. He doesn’t need to see the terrible evidence with his own eyes. 

No fucking luck, apparently. There’s a weird thumping noise and a few clicks and then the door is opening. Enjolras stands there in the doorway, looming over him. He’s so tall. No taller than usual, of course, but it really pops at moments like this. Christ, Grantaire’s mind is going. 

“When did you learn how to pick a lock?” Grantaire mumbles. 

“Oh, thank God. Grantaire, you’re okay.”

That seems like a slight overstatement, given the current hunched-on-a-bathroom-floor-in-a-puddle-of-his-own-vomit situation, but he’ll take it. Then all of a sudden Enjolras’ arms are around him. “You shouldn’t,” Grantaire says, and he can hear his own voice trailing off. “You’ll get all dirty.”

“I thought… R, I thought you were going to—“

Grantaire’s mind is moving pretty slowly, but something about the horrified tone makes it click for him. “You thought I was gonna kill myself?”

Enjolras doesn’t have to say anything. The gentle way he reaches out to press a hand against Grantaire’s face, even though his cheek is stained with sweat and tears and puke, confirms it.

“I wouldn’t do that. I promised.”

“I thought that’s what you meant. I thought…” Enjolras trails off, unable to form words. Grantaire is trying to think of the right thing to say in response when there’s another sharp jolt of agony through his chest. He must wince visibly, because suddenly Enjolras is sharply focused and looking like himself again. At least there’s some benefit to feeling like he’s being stabbed in the heart. “What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself when you fell?”

“I don’t know. I guess you were right, I’ve been feeling weird all day. My chest hurts a bunch. It comes and goes.”

“When did this start?”

“This morning. It got worse after—“ He gestures vaguely at the mess all around them. 

“Oh my God. Oh my God oh my God,” Enjolras is saying, but he pulls his phone from his pocket and starts dialing. 

“What’s the matter? Enjolras?”

But Enjolras is talking to the other end of the phone in that strange, distant, calm tone, not listening to Grantaire at all. 

“I’m at 48 Rue Lebrousse. We need an ambulance. I think my boyfriend had a heart attack.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: hospitalization, medical fatphobia, a likely grossly inaccurate portrayal of the French medical system.

Everyone brings him flowers. His hospital room is basically a botanical fucking garden, especially after Jehan showed up with a mountain of succulents and spray roses and random essential-oil-producing plants. It’s the only thing they can do, since Grantaire won’t let his friends into the actual hospital room. It feels like a real dick move on his part, after Éponine had taken time off work and Bahorel had taken the RER in from the suburbs just to see him, but he can’t bear the feeling of eyes on him, can’t stand the thought of his friends thinking of him like this, bound to beeping machines and helpless and ill. 

He did this to himself. He can’t take even friendly teasing. He’s too weak to stand it. 

“Please,” he says, hearing how pathetic he sounds, hiding his face behind the gross papery hospital sheet. “Please, ange, I don’t want any of them to see me like this.”

And bless Enjolras, he doesn’t say anything about how they’re good friends and they just want to help and they’ve come all this way and Grantaire owes it to them. He just kisses Grantaire’s forehead and says, “Okay.” He goes out to the hallway and has a whispered conversation with the Amis and then returns to Grantaire’s bedside. 

Grantaire doesn’t try to kick Enjolras out. He kind of thinks he should, but he doesn’t. It’s because he’s weak and pathetic and all that shit, but he does love Enjolras. And Enjolras doesn’t complain. He doesn’t even suggest that complaining about being in the hospital for ten hours a day is something one might want to do. Grantaire doesn’t know what he would have done, if this had happened in his life pre-Enjolras. Probably lain down to die. He’s not sure he could face waking up alone in this hospital day after day, at five in the damn morning when they come to take his vitals. He’s strapped to a million beeping devices and there’s some weird pinchy thing on his finger and he’s pissing into a tube because he’s not allowed to stand up yet. Somehow Enjolras doesn’t look at him any different, though. Even his fucked-up brain can’t interpret Enjolras’ presence at his side as anything except concern. 

It’s kind of a weird feeling, starting to trust that maybe Enjolras is there not out of a sense of guilt or whatever but because, well, he wants to be. 

Grantaire hates this. Obviously. He’s terrified of doctors under the best of circumstances. So anxious walking into even a normal clinic that it borders on a phobia. Being stuck in the hospital for days at a time is worst-nightmare material. But even he has to admit, once they’ve run a couple of tests, that he’s probably best off seeing this one out rather than leaving AMA and going home like he has on the two occasions he was hauled off by an ambulance after fainting. 

Apparently he was in pretty bad shape by the time they brought him in. He always thought having a heart attack would be like in the movies, when you clutch your chest and scream or whatever. But apparently you can have a bunch of little heart attacks over the course of the day without even noticing anything except some pain in the chest.

They do a series of weird tests, some that he’s had before and some that he hasn’t. He has to get an EKG again, and then another EKG, and then an ultrasound of his chest. A grave-faced team of doctors inform him in a low tone that he’s lost about 30% of the total mass of his heart due to muscle atrophy, and that a further 10% of the tissue became necrotic during the series of heart attacks. They tell him that they can’t be sure that the attacks that brought him in to the hospital were his first attacks. It’s likely that he’s had several beforehand and not even known it.

Enjolras asks, his voice shaking, what the prognosis is.

It’s good, apparently. He could still live a normal lifespan. He’ll be in the hospital for a while, about a week, while they run all the tests and keep him on bedrest to make sure he’s not going to immediately have another series of heart attacks. Once he goes home, he’ll have to stay in bed for about a month, and then carefully resume normal activities according to a planned schedule.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to worry about that, since Enjolras is right at his side and he’s going to make sure Grantaire sticks to his doctor’s orders whether he likes it or not. 

Mostly what he does in the hospital is sleep. Time passes in a weird grey blur under the fluorescent lights. It’s always cold. 

Enjolras is always there, except overnight. They make him leave at seven every night and don’t let him back in until nine the next morning. He only makes a fuss over it the first night. 

“Grantaire is my partner. This is blatant discrimination—“

The security guard manages to stay calm in the face of an angry Enjolras, which is frankly very impressive. “Sir, are you married?”

“No.”

“You know that gay couples can marry now, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So if you’re not married, although you could be, then you’re not being discriminated against. And you have to go.”

“I’ll be okay,” Grantaire promises. Before Enjolras is booted physically from the room, he tucks Grantaire into bed, wrapping the blanket he’d brought Grantaire from home around his shoulders and kissing his forehead. 

“I love you so much, R.”

“Ange, listen. Nothing bad is going to happen to me in the next twelve hours.”

“Fourteen,” Enjolras mumbles under his breath.

“I’m tucked into bed in an intensive care unit. If anything happens, there’ll be, like, a hundred doctors swarming me like ants at a picnic. There’s nowhere better I could be. And you’re my next of kin, so they’ll call you right away if anything goes wrong. Okay?”

“You shouldn’t have to be reassuring me. You’re the one who’s sick.”

“Yeah, bullshit. You’re the one who’s worried about me. And you’re going home to fret alone.” He squeezes Enjolras’ hand, pretending like he doesn’t notice how weak his own grip is. “We’re still in this together, yeah?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“This isn’t some pity party where you take care of poor sick Grantaire, all right? We’re partners. We look out for each other.”

“We do,” Enjolras confirms. 

“And I’m saying, I’ll be all right for the next twelve hours. Or fourteen, or whatever. And I love you.”

“Time to go, M. Enjolras,” the security guard interrupts, and then Enjolras is being steered firmly out of the room. 

The next morning, he’s back. Grantaire has been up since five A.M. rounds, when they shone a light in his face and checked his pulse and made him recite the alphabet backwards. In the meantime, he’s seen a dizzying array of doctors. During the day, there’s not much to do between tests. Enjolras just sits with him—doesn’t try to make him talk, and definitely doesn’t try to make him talk about it, for which he’s almost pathetically grateful. Sometimes Enjolras will read whatever he’s working on to Grantaire, and sometimes they just sit in silence, Grantaire dozing off easily in Enjolras’ comforting presence. 

After six nights, four EKGs, an ultrasound, twelve blood draws, and nine different consultations, he’s allowed to go home. Dr. Morel, a weasely little guy that Grantaire has disliked basically from the first sight, is the one with the paperwork. 

“M. Grantaire?” 

“Yeah?”

“Before you’re discharged, I need to speak with you about diet and exercise.”

Not this again, Grantaire thinks. It’s a toss-up which lecture this will be: stop starving yourself, or stop being so fat. He doesn’t care to hear either. He’s tired and he’s sore and he wants to take a shower standing up and be allowed to remove the various tubes that have been inserted into his body in various places where tubes aren’t really supposed to go. He looks up at Enjolras, who squeezes his shoulder reassuringly, as if to say, I’m here. “Okay,” Grantaire mumbles. He tells himself to just tune it out. 

“Maintaining a healthy body weight is key to your long-term heart health.”

Okay, so it’s that one. Probably his least favorite, of the two, since it’s the one that makes the voice in his head start screaming about how repulsive and disgusting he is. The other one just makes the voice scream about what a joke and a faker he is. All right, so they’re both pretty terrible. 

“Having a heart attack at such a young age is a clear sign that something is very wrong. We can set you up with nutrition counseling to help you lose the weight.”

“Okay,” Grantaire repeats. ‘The weight.’ Fuck, he hates that phrase. So dispassionate. Like they’re talking about an external thing. An illness. Not himself. He has to stop thinking about this, he reminds himself, staring down at his hands twisting under the hospital sheet. If he just doesn’t look up, he’ll be able to stay calm. He won’t start crying. He can hear it in his head, already, the pounding rhythm. He’s not good enough. He’ll never be good enough. Everyone knows it. People look at him, wherever he goes, and all they see is a huge failure. Pun intended. It’s a miracle no one laughs, looking at Enjolras next to him. Because the whole thing is a joke. Why should Enjolras even bother to stay here, looking after Grantaire when it’s his own fault he’s sick. 

“M. Grantaire, it’s very important that you take this seriously. Cut back on the carbohydrates, stop drinking soda, watch the junk food.”

Grantaire hasn’t drunk a soda with calories in it since he was fourteen years old, but he knows better than to try and argue. Unfortunately, Enjolras apparently does not. “Watch the assumptions,” Enjolras basically growls, and Grantaire tenses. He’s expecting the doctor’s reply and it comes.

“Look, it’s obvious that your eating habits need to be improved just from looking at you. If you don’t have the self-control necessary to do it on your own, we can talk about an appetite suppressant or—“

And then all of a sudden the doctor isn’t talking anymore, and Grantaire is confused for a second before he looks up and sees Enjolras is no longer right at his side. Enjolras is now standing very, very close to the doctor, and it is very obvious that he is quite tall and in very good shape and Dr. Morel is cowering a little bit. “Is that Grantaire’s chart you have in your hand?” Enjolras says, and his voice is very, very calm. 

“Y-yes?”

“I want you to open it for me, please.”

The doctor does as he’s told, which is probably wise. 

“Now, what does it say right there, under primary diagnoses?”

“Cardiac arrest, due to—due to eating disorder, not otherwise specified.”

“Good. You should know what that means, doctor.”

The doctor nods, just slightly.

“It means that Grantaire is lying in that bed because he’s starved himself for so long that his body is devouring his own heart for fuel. It means that he could have died—“ and at that Enjolras’ perfectly calm voice finally breaks—“because of doctors like you who would rather shame him for the way he looks than get him the help he needs. And it means that you had better apologize to my partner and then leave, because otherwise I can’t promise I’m not going to break several of your bones.”

“Sorry,” the doctor says, and flees. 

When he’s gone, Enjolras seems to snap out of his reverie. He turns back to Grantaire, his hands still shaking with anger. But as soon as he’s looking back at the bed, his face falls. “I’m sorry, R,” he says at once, rushing back to Grantaire, and then stopping a few inches away from him, hovering like he does when he’s not sure of what to do. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I—it was totally inappropriate of me, to speak over you like that, and shouting at the doctor, I could’ve jeopardized your care, and… and if you want me to go—“

“Come here,” Grantaire says, reaching up for his boyfriend as much as he can. He pulls Enjolras down into a kiss. “You’re gonna have to sign me out so we can go home now. Because that? Was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I probably should be. But honestly? No one has ever stuck up for me like that before. I was, uh, I was glad.”

“No one deserves to be treated like that. You’re sick, and he can’t even bother to glance at your chart and figure out what’s wrong?”

“It happens.”

“It does?” Enjolras asks, his voice full of concern. 

“Of course. Now you know why I never want to see the damn doctor, huh? It’s always like this.”

“Jesus, R. I am so, so sorry.”

Grantaire shrugs. “It is what it is.”

“You know you don’t deserve that, right?”

“Like I said, it is what it is. Not everyone can live your charmed life.”

“But people shouldn’t talk to you like that, R.”

“I’ve heard a lot worse, from a lot of doctors. And I don’t mind that you got upset, okay, but I can’t be trying to make you feel okay about this. I can’t afford to get angry about it. It’s just… it’s just the way things are.”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says again, kneeling down next to Grantaire’s bed. He takes Grantaire’s hand in his and pulls it up to his lips, kissing it gently. “You’re right, as usual. Let me get you home, all right?”

“All right,” Grantaire answers. He’s not sure quite how he’s feeling, other than physically (exhausted and ill) so he doesn’t push it. Enjolras goes to sign the discharge paperwork, and Grantaire stares up at the greying industrial ceiling and tries not to think.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely sure how to tag this chapter. There is some mention of medical stuff, mentions of sex and power exchange (consensual though potentially ill-advised), and some references to purging. 
> 
> Also, it'll be a few weeks before my next update, I am travelling for work.
> 
> As always, your comments will be treasured.

For the first few days, they don’t talk much about what has happened. Grantaire is on bed rest, and apparently even he is trusted not to get himself into trouble when he’s not able to stand or walk. Enjolras literally spoon-feeds him three times a day, sitting on the edge of the bed afterwards to watch him. It would be sweet, if not for the panic every time that this is the day that he is finally going to get fed up with dealing with Grantaire and walk out, the way he probably should. 

 

But after the second follow-up, two weeks after Grantaire has been discharged, he’s cleared to go back to work as long as he doesn’t walk there and he’s keeping his meals down. It’s a good sign. Even Grantaire, world-renowned pessimist, can see that. It means he’s getting better enough that he can have some semblance of a normal life.

 

Before he can go, they speak to Dr. Simplice. She tells them that she can’t recommend Grantaire return to work until they’ve figured out some strategies to keep him safe. 

 

“If you’re not ready to tackle full recovery—and I think we’re neither of us up to rehash that fight today—then we need to take a harm-reduction approach with the sessions we have remaining.”

 

She assigns them to come up with four strategies, and implement them daily. It makes Grantaire feel like a child, to have Enjolras checking in three times a day (15 minutes before lunch, while he’s eating, and 15 minutes after), though Enjolras tries to make it as easy for him as possible. He’ll just text “safe” and Grantaire will respond with a thumbs up or a frowny emoji. The latter summons Enjolras to his side with alarming speed, but somehow it never occurs to Grantaire to lie to him. That’s strategy one.

 

They have breakfast and dinner together, just the two of them, every day. Strategy two. 

 

So they’re in the living room, trying to think of number three. Grantaire feels like it’s his turn to suggest something. Maybe that’s why he says it, although he regrets it almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

 

“We could make a game out of it,” Grantaire suggests. He usually lets Enjolras take the lead on sex stuff, but he’s done too much of that. It’s time for him to bridge the gap, and he wonders if Enjolras has been thinking the same thing. It would just make sense. They’ve been escalating their dynamic outside of the bedroom, little things like orgasm control and small orders that keep him going throughout the day. Or they had been, before Grantaire somehow managed to give himself a heart attack. Their lives have been a no-sex, no-fun zone for the last few weeks. 

 

“Wh-what do you mean?” 

 

Okay, so maybe they’re not thinking the same thing. He takes a deep breath and says, “You know how lately you’ve been telling me what to do a bit more?”

 

“Yes.” That’s a terse little answer. It’s not encouraging, but that’s the thing about Grantaire. Once hes tarts talking, he can never stop himself. 

 

“You know how much I like that.”

 

Enjolras smiles a little at that, but his body is still tight as a cord. “I hoped you do.”

 

“I was thinking we could extend that a little. To, you know, the new challenge. Like, rewards if I can stick to the plan. Uh, punishments if I don’t. It doesn’t have to be big things, just, um, I’ll stop talking now.”

 

Because Enjolras is standing there, staring straight ahead. He’s totally silent, which is… not the typical Enjolras look. At all. 

 

And he’s shaking a bit now, not looking at Grantaire. Just trembling where he stands and biting his lip, like he’s searching for the right words. 

 

Grantaire bites back his old impulse to do something stupid, to pick a fight and make Enjolras mad. At least if Enjolras were yelling at him he’d know where he stood. There wouldn’t be this awful, awful silence. 

 

But then Enjolras would want to talk about it later, and that would be pretty terrible, so he should probably suck it up and endure the unending silence. 

 

He’s trying to think of a way to break the tension. He tries to apologize, but when he opens his mouth no sound comes out. The shame is choking him. It feels physical, though he knows it can’t be. 

 

And then, after a long time, Enjolras speaks. 

 

“Don’t ask me to do that,” Enjolras says. He meets Grantaire’s eyes, blinking back tears. “Please.” His voice breaks, and Grantaire has never, ever felt like this before. He’s never seen Enjolras like this, Enjolras who is so brave and so sure and so strong and always knows what to do. 

 

“I didn’t—“ He’s about to say that he didn’t mean anything by it, that he was just making a joke, just proposing a bit of fun, but it seems like it would almost be disrespectful of Enjolras’ horror at the thought. “You can forget I said it. It was stupid.” He sticks his hands in the pockets of his jeans and looks away, the way he always does when he’s trying to avoid making eye contact. It’s not like Enjolras doesn’t know his tricks, but he doesn’t push Grantaire on it. Obviously, he’s not much in the mood to talk to Grantaire at all. Who can blame him? Grantaire wishes he could give himself the silent treatment. He’s such an idiot. 

 

They’ve barely touched since he got out of the hospital, anyways. Enjolras isn’t precisely ignoring him, not really, but it’s obvious that he no longer wants Grantaire in the hot and consuming way he had at first. How could he, having found Grantaire semi-conscious in a puddle of his own vomit? How could he even stand to touch him in the chaste, careful manner he has been?

 

Grantaire lets out a sound. He hears it before anything else, a strangled half-sob, and he thinks he choked most of it back but not all. 

 

“Come here,” Enjolras says, warmly but firmly, and he opens his arms wide. Grantaire shuffles closer to him, feeling entirely pathetic, and lets his boyfriend wrap him up in a hug. It’s sad how much of the anxiety in his body quells at the touch. What is he going to do once Enjolras finally admits he’s sick of putting up with him, which could be at any moment given the way this conversation is going?

 

And now he’s crying onto Enjolras’ shoulder. This is not helping his attempt at seeming like a quasi-functional normal adult human being who Enjolras should continue to be in a relationship with and not, for instance, run screaming in the opposite direction of Grantaire as fast as his legs can carry him. 

 

But Enjolras isn’t pushing him away or running screaming, he reminds himself. Enjolras is instead very gently stroking his back and holding him close. “It’s all right, R. I’m here. I love you.”

 

“S—sorry,” he manages, after a long moment. He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for exactly. Crying on Enjolras, or offering something that obviously repulses Enjolras, or just his whole entire being. Or all of the above, most likely. 

 

“Don’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

 

Obviously false, but he won’t argue with a good thing. Just kidding, he often argues with a good thing. The good thing being Enjolras. What is _wrong_ with him? He should just let Enjolras leave now. It’ll hurt, of course, but it’s only going to hurt more if he lets himself be comforted and then Enjolras leaves. The part where Enjolras leaves is inevitable, he has to remember that. There’s no tricking himself into thinking that if he does things right Enjolras will stay. The only way to do that would be to convert himself into a completely different person.

 

At least this time he can tell he’s having a panic attack.

 

“Sorry,” he repeats, even though Enjolras has just said he shouldn’t. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” he says, and that’s it. That’s the thing he’s been too afraid to say because it hurts too much to admit. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when Enjolras leaves. He doesn’t know how he could keep getting better without Enjolras’ help. He doesn’t want to ask it of him because it’s so much to ask, because it’s so unfair for Enjolras to be putting his whole life on hold to take care of his worthless boyfriend who can’t even feed himself. And he doesn’t want to give up. He doesn’t. He wants to get better.

 

He wants to get better. 

 

The thought, which he’s been pushing away for so long, chokes him with its intensity and he begins crying harder. 

 

“Hey.” Enjolras pulls back just enough to put one warm hand on Grantaire’s chin, tipping it upward. He lays a gentle kiss over Grantaire’s lips. “I love you. I want to take care of you. Okay? I’m not doing this because I feel like I have to. I like being here for you.”

 

Grantaire doesn’t object. He doesn’t want to, even though he knows it isn’t true. Enjolras will get sick of this in the end.

 

“R. Listen to me.”

 

Grantaire looks at him, because since when has he been able to say no to Enjolras?

 

“Do you trust me?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Then trust me on this. I’m gonna be here for you while you fight this, no matter what it takes. Do you believe me?”

 

And looking into Enjolras’ fiercely burning eyes, Grantaire can only say, “Yes.” Enjolras pulls him back in again, holding him close. Grantaire can feel how strong he is, how determined. He’s so afraid that his own failures may be so terrible they overcome even Enjolras’ goodness. Now that would be a new kind of bad to be. 

 

Enjolras keeps holding Grantaire until he has no tears to shed. When he’s a little calmer, though still hiccuping slightly, Enjolras steps away enough that Grantaire can see his face, though he keeps both of Grantaire’s hands in his. “What you said earlier. We need to talk about it.”

 

“Do we need to? Or could we sweep it under the rug as just one of those silly Grantaire things we all try to forget about?” Grantaire proposes hopefully. 

 

Enjolras frowns. Damnit. That gambit works about half the time, with Enjolras smiling at him and kissing him, amused by his antics. No luck today. “I’d really like to talk about it, so that we’re both on the same page. But it doesn’t have to be today, if you’re not up for it.”

 

“No. I can take it.”

 

“Are you sure?” The frown is deepening. Not good, not good. 

 

“I’m sure.” He squeezes Enjolras’ hand a little. “It’ll be easier to just get it over with.”

 

“I’m not upset, R. Or… well, no, I guess I should be honest. I’m upset because what you asked… I told myself I would do anything that would make this easier on you.”

 

“But you won’t do that?” Grantaire proposes. The reference seems to fly right over Enjolras’ head.

 

“Exactly. I can’t do that. I love being with you like that. I love the sex we have, I love playing around with dominance in some other ways too, but this… Grantaire, this isn’t a game. You almost died. I want to do anything I can to help, and if you really think that would help, I would try, but that’s… it’s so much responsibility. Too much. I could mess it up so easily, any second. And it scares the _shit_ out of me that you’re still acting like this is… like it’s nothing important. I am terrified every second that your heart is going to give out. That I’ll come home and find you dead on the floor. That if I say the wrong thing, I’ll trigger you and when I find you it’ll be… it’ll be my fault—“ Enjolras stops speaking, burying his face in his hands. 

 

“Been holding this in for a while, huh?” Grantaire says gently. 

 

“For a while, yeah. Like I said, I haven’t wanted to make you feel like I… None of this is your fault. You’re sick. I’m gonna stick by you until you get better, or… or… I’m going to stick by you no matter what. But I didn’t… I didn’t realize, when we started this, how hard it was going to be to watch you…to watch you dying and… and know there’s nothing I can do about it…” 

 

Enjolras is crying now. 

 

Enjolras is _crying._

 

Grantaire’s brain should be freaking out, but he’s actually perfectly calm. It’s so bizarre to see Enjolras in tears that it flips some kind of switch that makes him suddenly a capable adult again. “Okay. Okay, love. Listen, this is what we’re going to do. We’re gonna call Dr. Simplice and see if we can talk to her tomorrow. We’re going to ask if she has some resources for you, as a caregiver, because you have too much on your plate and you need some support in supporting me. Maybe a group, maybe therapy for you. We’ll see. And I’ll… I’ll talk to her about getting into one of those treatment places.”

 

Enjolras looks up at Grantaire through long, wet golden eyelashes. “You don’t… do you mean it?”

 

“Yeah. C’mon, ange. It’s gonna be okay.”

 

“You shouldn’t be… you shouldn’t be having to comfort me, I’m—“

 

“Do not be silly. You are my boyfriend and partner and I love you. We take care of each other. Right?”

 

“Yeah,” Enjolras manages, leaning heavily into Grantaire’s offered arm. “I don’t want to say anything, but I… well, I have to… Are you just doing this for my sake?”

 

Grantaire can’t really answer that question. Because the truth is, he isn’t, not entirely. This is at least partially for himself, maybe even as much as it is for Enjolras. But also, “Who says I can’t do things for your sake, ange? You’ve done plenty of stuff for mine. I love you, and if you think this is what has to happen, if you’re suffering and I can do something about it, then… I’ll give it a shot, okay?”

 

“Thank you,” Enjolras says. “Now c’mon. I’m pretty sure it’s dinner time.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> additional content warnings: some medical stuff, dark humor about psychiatric hospitalization, mention of BMI (no specific numbers)

It definitely feels, from Grantaire’s perspective, like that should be the hurdle. Isn’t that what they always say? The hardest part is admitting that you have a problem? He admitted it, out loud and everything, in words, in front of Enjolras and his therapist and everybody, and it seems like he should be getting more credit for that. It was hard. He didn’t want to and he did, and it feels deeply unfair, somehow, that he’s not getting credit for time served from the universe for that. It sort of seems that all the rest of it should be falling into his lap. That now that he’s said it, he should be getting better. Like it should be downhill from here. He’s seeking help! Shouldn’t it be here, waiting for him?

It’s not.

Dr. Simplice taps her pen against the edge of her notebook. It’s one of her many tricks for getting Grantaire’s attention back when it’s been wandering, as it so often is. 

Enjolras squeezes Grantaire’s hand, which helps. There’s a reason his mind tends to wander off during therapy sessions, after all, and it’s because this whole entire thing makes him so damned nervous. He can hardly think about it. But Enjolras’ hand in his is warm and solid and real, and that helps, well, as much as anything is really likely to. 

“Did you get a chance to look into the places on the list?” the doctor asks.

Grantaire looks at his lap, where the print-out of recommended inpatient and residential programs is sitting. Going over it was an overwhelming process of several hours of frantic googling interspersed with quiet screaming interspersed with kisses from Enjolras. The latter, at least, was nice. The space next to each name on the sheet is covered with notes, both in his own big, scrawling handwriting (these are mostly brief, like “maybe???” “definitely no” and “AHHH”) and in Enjolras’ neat, precise hand (these are universally multiple-paragraph, multiple-perspective evaluations of a whole series of pros and cons for each particular place). “Yeah,” Grantaire says. Which seems like an understatement. 

“Did any one stick out to you as the best fit?”

Grantaire glances back over the list. There’s one that he has starred as possibly being tolerable, but it feels almost silly to say yes, so he doesn’t. He’s not sure why, except that the feelings that had come up in him when he was looking it over were the ones that scare him most—like anger, and hope. He’s not sure why he feels those things, exactly, so he doesn’t talk about it. “I don’t know,” he hedges.

“That’s all right. Let’s talk about what you do think would work best for you. In your ideal treatment scenario, how would that work?”

“Someone flips a button and I’m, like, a hundred percent healed?” Grantaire quips. No one laughs. No one ever laughs at his hilarious jokes about his deep-seated mental trauma, for some reason. It’s really disappointing, since that's where a lot of his best material comes from, really. No one appreciates him around here. 

“Assuming that's impossible.”

“Well, um. I guess there are a few things.” And this is why making dumb jokes about it is so great! It’s like, an A+ defense mechanism. Hiding behind a thick veil of humor and not-taking-himself-seriously. It’s what Grantaire does best. Because if he doesn’t keep joking about it, he’ll have to actually think about the fact that he's about to check himself into a mental hospital and he's not sure he can actually stand that thought. 

“And they are?”

Dr. Simplice is relentless. Which, he supposes, is what makes her a good therapist, and particularly a good therapist for the Grantaires (read, deeply avoidant personality-having) of the world. But still! It’s not nice. “Um.”

“Would it help to write them down? I’d say it could be homework for the next section, but I’m not sure we have that much time. I want to make sure we get this taken care of before your next heart attack.”

Oh, so she can make jokes. He’s assuming that’s a joke. He doesn't think he’s going to have another one. The doctors said he would be fine as long as he didn’t purge, and he hasn’t been! Mostly. With a few exceptions, but those were emergencies. 

He’s doing his best, okay. 

“Uh, I guess I would want to be in a place that has more of a diverse population? Of inmates. Or patients or whatever. Because I know this is a thing that mostly happens to teenaged girls, and, uh, that wouldn’t be great.”

“I can see how that would be really uncomfortable for you.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t even thought of that. “I was more thinking, y’know, a bunch of scared sixteen year olds who are away from home and really sick are going to have a hard time getting better if there’s, like, a grown man loitering in their group therapy sessions. Might kind of freak people out.”

“Also true.”

“So there's that. If there could be anything like an equal population of men or women, and some kind of distribution of ages, and also, um, diagnoses, that would be good.”

“That’s true. For that, you’re going to want to look at facilities that have a self-admit-only policy. Some of these—” she taps the paper to indicate which she means— “Also only take adults, but it's really the former that’s more important. It means that everyone else there is as motivated to do the work as you are.

Well, Grantaire doesn’t feel particularly motivated to do the work. Right now, he mostly feels motivated to run away and hide so that this conversation can end. But he doesn’t do it, and that has to count for something.

“What else?” she asks. He was really hoping not to answer that, since there’s only one more item on his list and he really doesn’t want to have to say it. He can just about manage to think it, but he doesn't think he can say it, out loud, with words. With them both looking at him. 

“And.” He’s not sure he can actually say this out loud, especially with Enjolras next to him being all, well, Enjolras-y (beautiful and supportive and perfectly understanding of things that no one should understand). “It would be better if they had some experience working with people who are, uh, like me. I don’t mean just age and gender.”

“All the facilities on the list have experience working with patients who admit at a higher weight,” she says, completely calmly.

“Yeah, but that means, like, a BMI that’s barely normal. On the low end. Not the me end.”

“It can mean a wide range of things,” she corrects, with characteristic patience. “Less than 10% of patients with a clinically significant eating disorder are ever underweight, in the entire course of their illness. This minority is overrepresented in clinical treatment, for reasons I’m sure you can guess, but any treatment center worth its salt—any one I would recommend—is going to have at least some experience with patients who are clinically defined as overweight when they admit. I really recommend these two—“ she points them out, “for the Health At Every Size philosophy they follow. And to be clear, Grantaire, I mean that I recommend those to all of my patients considering a higher level of care, regardless of their presenting weight. This isn't a panacea to make you feel better about your personal situation. It's a key factor in successful ED treatment.”

“Okay,” he says, but he doesn’t feel okay about it. He's still plagued by fantasies of stick-thin teenagers with their bones sticking out through his skin, and who will probably point and laugh at Grantaire when he walks in like he’s one of them, like he is somehow entitled to the help that they need. 

“You’ll also need somewhere that provides significant nursing and medical support, since you’ve already had some serious medical complications from your illness.”

He’s not sure he’d say that—it was just one little heart attack, it didn't feel like anything—but she’s the expert.

“I think a program with a step-down aspect is best. It means you can be residential for a shorter number of total weeks. After that, you’ll move to a partial hospitalization model—you’ll still have to be out of work and spend all day at the hospital, it won’t be easy, but you’ll be able to live at home.”

Which means more time with Enjolras, which Grantaire is always happy to hear. 

“This is my recommendation.” She taps the name of the third clinic on the list—the one that Grantaire, in his own inexpert opinion, had thought was best. More than thought. Felt. He’d felt a little bit of something looking at their website. Hope, maybe. The line that had gotten to him was in their treatment philosophy, the bit that said that they believed that you—yes, you—could recover fully and have a life free from excessive concerns about weight and body shape, fear of food, and anxiety at mealtimes. It sounds too good to be true, but it also sounds just plain good. 

“Sure,” Grantaire says, trying to quell the pounding feeling in his chest. He tells himself it’s just anxiety. He shouldn’t listen to it… and he should be used to it by now. It’s nothing more than that familiar unpleasantness of his brain telling him to worry for no reason. 

“You should call sooner rather than later. They often have a waiting list, and it may take some time to sort things out with your insurance. The faster you get yourself on their radar, the sooner you can begin treatment.”

“I’ll call this afternoon,” he says vaguely.

“How about now?” Enjolras suggests. Grantaire looks at him. It’s rare for him to change the subject in one of Grantaire’s therapy sessions. He’s usually pretty careful to be quiet, presumably out of respect for Grantaire’s issues or whatever. 

“What?”

“I was just thinking,” and now Enjolras is looking a little red-faced, which was totally not Grantaire’s intention, to embarrass him, although he does look cute when he blushes, “that it might be easier. I know this isn’t going to be an easy thing for you to do, and it might be better to do it here where Dr. Simplice can provide accountability rather than saying you’ll do it—and meaning to, I’m sure! And then having to take care of it yourself, or the two of us having an argument about it, or something.”

He’s right. Of course. Grantaire looks at Dr. Simplice for confirmation, and when he gets a calm nod, sighs. “What do I say?”

“It’ll be straightforward. Not easy, per se, but straightforward. Call the number I give you. Introduce yourself, and then say why you’re calling. That is, to schedule an intake for a new patient. They may want to do it on the phone right away, but it’s more likely they’ll schedule a call for later.” 

“That sounds doable,” he admits, although his hands are shaking. 

He takes his phone from his pocket and begins to dial. 

“This is Diane at Fern Hills,” a chirpy female voice answers before the first ring. “How can I help you?”

“Hi. My name is René Grantaire.” He swallows, his own tongue feeling bizarrely heavy in his mouth. It’s just a phone call, he reminds himself, which doesn’t help. He hates talking on the phone. “I’m calling to schedule a, um,” he searches for the word. “An intake assessment.”

“For which location?”

“Um.” He hadn’t realized there were more than one. “I’m in Paris?”

“That would be either our Paris location, for day treatment, or our Reims location for residential.”

Grantaire winces. He knows the town of Reims well, having worked briefly at the champagne cave, and while it’s a beautiful place, it’s nearly two hours from Paris. That means he’d only see Enjolras at the weekends, if then. He’s half-tempted to just say Paris, but he knows better. “Um. Residential, I guess.”

“Great. Let me put you through to our care coordinator in the Reims office. She can schedule a time for you to come in.”

The line rings twice, and then there’s another chirpy voice. Enjolras is holding Grantaire’s hand so tight that it hurts, which would bother him if not for the fact that Grantaire vaguely feels he might spin off the face of the earth without Enjolras’ grip on him. “Mireille at Fern Hills Reims. With whom am I speaking?”

“My name’s Grantaire. Someone said I could talk to you about scheduling an assessment.”

“Sure.” There’s a pause, and he hears tapping at some computer keys. “I can have our intake coordinator call you at 2 PM today. Does that work?”

“Yeah.”

“We recommend you be at home or in another private place for the assessment. There will be some personal questions about your history and why you’re seeking treatment so we can make sure we’re the best fit for you and determine the level of care you need. So please be prepared, and take care of yourself as best you can.”

“Okay,” he says, feeling vaguely stupid. 

“Thank you so much for calling. It’s really brave of you to take this step.”

The line goes dead, and Grantaire is left reeling. He turns to the expectant eyes of Enjolras and Dr. Simplice. “2:00 today,” he says. “To be evaluated, for a bed at the facility in Reims.”

“That’s soon,” Dr. Simplice says encouragingly. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Not too far away,” Enjolras adds, with a smile Grantaire is pretty sure is fake. “I’ll be able to commute back in for some of the more important meetings, if they’re at times you’re not available.”

“Wait, what? You’re not coming with me,” Grantaire objects. “You live in Paris! We live here!”

“We’ll sublet the apartment. I’ll find something out in Reims, keep you company when I can.”

“No way,” Grantaire says. “You’re not putting your whole life on hold for me. It’s too much pressure.”

Dr. Simplice interjects. “Let’s talk about this after Grantaire has an admit date and a treatment plan. Since right now it’s arguing for no reason.”

As usual, she’s right.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes for this chapter: this is the intake chapter, so there's a lot of discussion about specific behaviors, reference to weight, and so on. 
> 
> Also, I tried something formally (this is an all-dialogue chapter, except for some framing), and I'm curious what y'all think about it! Next time I promise there will be more Enjolras!

Later on, Grantaire can’t remember how he felt about any of it. He can’t remember what he was thinking, or how the words came to him. All he can remember is what he said, and what the woman on the other end of the line said. She’s yet another in a long string of the bright and chirpy women he’s spoken to in this process, but that makes it easier, somehow. It’s as if he’s talking to himself, since she’s just a faceless, decontextualized voice. Not easy, per se. It’s not an easy conversation. But easier. 

The phone rings at exactly two o’clock. Enjolras squeezes his shoulder firmly and kisses the top of his head. “I’ll be in the next room, love. Come get me if you need me,” he says, and disappears. 

“Thank you for scheduling this intake assessment with Fern Hills. My name is Collette, and I’m the intake coordinator here at the Reims location. Are you in a safe, private space where you can talk freely?”

“Yes.”

“I need to ask you a few questions first, to verify your identity. Is that okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“What’s your name?”

“René Grantaire. I go by R, please.”

“What is your date of birth?”

“October 5th, 1994.”

“And what time did you call to set up this assessment?”

“About ten this morning.”

“Great. Now, I’m going to ask you a few questions for the sake of the assessment. Some of these questions might feel personal or intrusive. Some of them might be uncomfortable, or hard to answer. Do your best, but if you can’t some any of them, it’s okay just to tell me so. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“There are four sections. In the first, I’ll ask you some questions about your life overall. Then, I’ll ask about your current eating disorder behaviors. Next, I’ll ask about your overall health history. Finally, I’ll ask for some specifics about your eating disorder history, and then there will be a chance for you to ask me questions. Does that make sense?”

“Absolutely. 

“Where do you live, R?”

“Paris. In the 10th.”

“Do you live with anyone?”

“Yeah. I share an apartment with my boyfriend, Enjolras.”

“What do you do for work?”

“I’m an artist. A painter. I paint caricatures and sell books and a few other odd jobs to make ends meet, but mostly I do abstract stuff.”

“How long have you been painting?”

“Since I was a teenager. Sixteen, seventeen maybe.”

“And how long have you and Enjolras been together?”

“Nearly a year.”

“How did the two of you meet?”

“We’ve been, um, friends, for a long time. We didn’t always get along great, though—we were in the same circle of friends. Turns out a lot of that might have been sexual tension, ha.”

“How would you describe your relationship?”

“Incredible. Enjolras is the best. He’s so supportive and brilliant and gorgeous and kind.”

“You’re happy together?”

“Very much. Yeah.”

“And your friendships?”

“I have amazing friends. Better than I deserve.”

“Would you say that you have a good support system in Paris?”

“Yes. Very good. Excellent. Superlative. If I could think of more words, I’d use them. But I’m running out, a bit.”

“That’s good news. Do you see a therapist or psychiatrist?”

“Yeah. Her name is Dr. Simplice. I’ve been seeing her for a few months now. She’s helped me a lot, but she thinks I need something more.”

“Let’s talk a little bit about your current symptoms, then. Has Dr. Simplice or another medical provider given you a diagnosis?”

“Yes. Um. Atypical anorexia, purging type.”

“Can you describe what you might eat in a typical day for me?”

“That’s a hard question. I’m kind of all over the place, especially lately. I usually skip breakfast, unless Enjolras talks me into having a tartine or something. I try to have a sandwich for lunch, and I succeed, I don’t know, four days a week? Dinner is usually pretty good, since Enjolras and I are together for that.”

“How many days in a week would you say you usually eat three meals?”

“Um. One, maybe?”

“And how many days do you skip at least one meal with the intent of changing your body shape and size?”

“At least five. Usually every day.”

“You mentioned that you purge. Do you use laxatives?”

“Occasionally. Once every couple of months.”

“Use exercise to purge?”

“Um, yeah.”

“In what way?”

“I count how many calories I’ve eaten and then go to the gym and I don’t leave until I’ve burnt that many calories. If that counts, I don’t know.”

“How often?”

“Every other week or so.”

“Do you ever self-induce vomiting?”

“Yeah.”

“How many times a week, over the last three months?”

“Four or five?”

“Is that the most frequency you’ve ever had this behavior?”

“No. Before Enjolras and I were together, it was a dozen times a week, sometimes.”

“Any other problems with purging?”

“No.”

“Do you ever binge eat? I mean here eat more food than a person might normally eat in a whole day.”

“Sometimes, if I haven’t been eating all day.”

“That’s not binging, in a clinical sense. Just so you know. Have you ever been in residential eating disorder treatment before?”

“No.”

“Can you explain what motivates these behaviors?”

“Feeling bad about myself. Or feeling anxious. Or just habit, I think. I don’t know. All kinds of things. Any kind of thing can do it, these days.”

“Are you able to stop yourself when you don’t want to engage in a behavior?”

“No, I can’t. Sometimes no matter what I do, or what I try.”

“How is your body image?” 

“Shit.”

“Can you expand on that?”

“Uh, I am garbage looking, and I feel like garbage about that.”

“Do you have any particular areas of dissatisfaction?”

“My stomach. My arms. My thighs. I could go on, but I’d probably bore you to tears.”

“And how often do you think about these issues?”

“At least every day.”

“Are you ever distracted by them, from work or other daily activities?”

“Uh, yeah. All the time.”

“Can you take your clothes off in front of other people? Say, a medical provider, or when you’re being intimate.”

“Um. Once in a while, I can get naked with Enjolras. But usually it still makes me too, well, too nervous.”

“Have you had any major medical complications? Low electrolytes, dental issues—“

“Um. I had a heart attack, earlier this year?”

“Were you hospitalized?”

“Yeah. For about a week.”

“Have you had an EKG since?”

“Yeah. It was mostly normal.”

“Any other physical problems?”

“No.”

“Do you sometimes feel weak, dizzy, or tired?”

“Yes. All of the above. Almost all the time.”

“Do you suffer from depression?”

“Yes.”

“Anxiety?”

“Yes.”

“Social, generalized?”

“Both.”

“Do you ever have panic attacks?”

“Sometimes.”

“How often?”

“Once a week or so.”

“Have you ever been diagnosed with bipolar disorder?”

“No.” 

“Have you ever been diagnosed with a personality disorder?”

“No.”

“How do you sleep?”

“Badly. I usually wake up a few times in any given night.”

“Do you feel uncomfortably cold when others are comfortable?”

“Huh. Yeah.”

“Is your weight stable, or have you lost or gained a significant amount recently?”

“I think it’s stable. Dr. Simplice doesn’t let me weigh myself.”

“That’s a good practice.” 

“Yeah, I guess so. It’s definitely made me feel better.”

“Does anyone else in your family suffer from mental illness?”

“Um. My dad was a drunk. And I think my mom probably had depression, although she was never diagnosed with it. She, uh, she killed herself.”

“Have you ever been suicidal?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you ever attempted suicide?”

“Yes. Seriously, only twice, but I made a lot of half-assed stabs at knocking myself off when I was a teenager.”

“Are you suicidal now?”

“No. No, I wouldn’t want to die, even if the opportunity presented itself.”

“Do you ever injure yourself intentionally?”

“I used to cut myself when I was a teenager. On like, a daily basis. Sometimes a several-times-a-daily basis. I mostly stopped that about two years ago, though the urge sometimes still hits me. Not as much as it used to, though.”

“Have you ever been emotionally or physically abused by a family member?”

“My dad used to knock me around sometimes.”

“Have you ever been the victim of sexual assault?”

“No.”

“When did your eating disorder behaviors first present?”

“When I was twelve I started skipping meals once in a while. The first time I purged was when I was eighteen or so. After a bad breakup.”

“Have they gotten better or worse over the years?”

“Way worse up to about a year ago. Then better for a bit. Now maybe, um, worse again? Which feels weird because I’m happier because of Enjolras. But still. I think it’s actually getting harder.”

“What is motivating you to seek treatment at this time?”

“I want to get better. Uh, I’ve been a little happy recently, and that’s made me think, you know, one day I might be, like, happy happy. I know that sounds inane. But it’s kind of a new thing for me, to imagine that I could have a good time that lasted longer than a night. And I want that. And I want to live.”

“Thank you, R. I really appreciate all of your honesty in this call. I know it’s difficult. I’ve passed your responses on to our team, and they will give you a call in the next few days to let you know when the next bed is going to be available here. In the meantime, do you have any questions or concerns that I can resolve for you now?”

“So many that I kind of don’t know where to start, to be honest. Uh, I guess—what do I do all day, there?”

“Wake-up is at 7. We do vitals, so your blood work, EKG if you need one, pulse, blood pressure, and a blind weight taken by a nurse. Then we meet for breakfast until 8:30. From 8:30 to 9 is a planning group where we set our intentions for the day. Then from 9 to 10, you’ll meet with your primary therapist. At 10 we have morning snack until 10:15, and then a 15-minute meal process group. From 10:30-12:00, there’s primary group, where we all meet together to discuss our work. Then lunch, from 12:00-12:30. After lunch, we have a post-meal group for half an hour where we discuss how the meal went. Then from 1-3, there’s a different group based on the day: animal therapy, art therapy, yoga… At 3 patients meet one-on-one or in small groups with the dietitians, and then another snack. From 4 to 6:30 is free time, so you might have more individual therapy when you’re new here, or you might go on an excursion with other patients, or have visitors, or enjoy some time alone. We’ll meet again at 6:30 for a pre-dinner group. Dinner is at 7, and then a post-dinner processing group. At 8 we generally do a whole-group activity, like a game or movie, just to destress. If it’s been a hard day, though, we might have another processing group. Then vitals again, evening snack at 10, and bed by 11.”

“Wow. That’s quite a schedule.”

“It’s very intense treatment. The goal is to have our patients in and out within six weeks. That means they need to leave with the skills that they’ll require to thrive on their own in that time, and it’s not easy to get them there in such a limited period. It means hard work, every single day you’re here—but it also means you’ll be back to your normal life much sooner, and you’ll be healthy sooner.”

“Okay. Wow. Um. You said I’ll hear back soon?”

“Very soon. Other questions?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Thank you so much for your time, R.”

“Thank you.”

And just like that, the line goes dead and it’s over.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long delay! I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing.

Enjolras folds up the last of the shirts Grantaire is taking with him and smooths it onto the top of the neat stack in the suitcase. “Are you sure you have enough?”

“Laundry’s every week. So technically I only need seven shirts. You’ve put, like, twenty in there. I didn’t even know I owned twenty shirts.”

Enjolras looks down at his hands, which is his tell. Grantaire knows him pretty well at this point. He always tries to avoid eye contact when he’s been up to something. 

“You bought me clothes, didn’t you!” It’s not so much a question as an accusation—Enjolras has entirely given himself away with that expression.

“I want you to be comfortable,” Enjolras mumbles. “I did a lot of reading on this and everyone says they’re surprised by what they need, and I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be bored or sad or not have the right clothes with you.”

Grantaire takes a deep breath. He’s been working on this—see, he’s becoming a healthier person already! This whole psych-hospital thing should be a breeze. Anyway, he’s been working on letting Enjolras do nice stuff for him when he really insists on doing it, which happens with alarming regularity. “Thanks,” he says. Obviously, it’s not convincing.

“I know I shouldn’t have. I’m trying not to push. I just…since I can’t be there, I wanted to do as much as possible, so that you’d have me with you.”

He tries not to roll his eyes, and probably fails. This conversation he’s properly sick of having. It doesn’t make any sense for Enjolras to uproot his whole life, go on leave from work, and leave his home so that he can be in greater physical proximity to Grantaire when he’s living in a locked ward and can’t see Enjolras anyway. “I will literally see you in four days.” Wednesdays are family therapy days, in the evening, and in the afternoon there’s visiting time. He’s given up on convincing Enjolras not to come down every single week, just like Enjolras has given up on convincing Grantaire that it would be a great idea for him to get a sublet nearby. Or at least, is pretending he’s given up. Grantaire isn’t so sure that he actually has. Come to think of it, he’s probably plotting something. 

“Five,” Enjolras mumbles, and Grantaire leans up to kiss him gently on the cheek. 

“You are impossible, and I adore you.”

“I just wish there were some way I could do this for you.”

“I know. But I’m going solo on this one, love.” He laces his fingers with Enjolras’ and gently pulls his hand away from the suitcase. “Stop fussing with that. If I need anything, I’ll call you and tell you to bring it on Wednesday, in five days, when you’re coming to see me. I promise.”

 

Enjolras gives him a tight little smile and then reaches down to zip up the suitcase. “Any chance I can get you to have a snack before you go?”

“What do you think?”

“I had to ask.”

He really didn’t, but he’s wrapping his arms tightly around Grantaire’s waist and kissing him deeply before Grantaire can voice an objection. The kiss is long and lingering, and when Enjolras finally pulls away, he’s flushed and out of breath. “What was that for? Not that I’m objecting.”

“I don’t know when I’ll get my next chance to do that.”

“Fair enough. How will you manage?”

“I’ll be pining for you every moment, of course.” He says it lightly, like he’s joking, but his hands are still lingering around Grantaire’s waist. Grantaire lets his eyes flutter shut, trying to memorize the exact feeling of Enjolras’ warm, steady touch. He’ll be sleeping alone tonight, without the comfort of Enjolras’ body next to his.

This was a mistake, he wants to shout. I need to be here, with you. I’ll do better, I’ll get better, I just need to stay. But he knows that’s not true. He’s trapped in a cycle, and he’ll only spiral downwards as long as he’s trying to muddle through this on his own. Worse, he could easily drag Enjolras down with him, and that’s just completely unacceptable. He has to figure out a way to be better than that. 

He knows this isn’t exactly a sentiment his therapist would approve of, but he’s doing this for Enjolras. It’s just the truth. He would never have gotten this help just for himself, but now with Enjolras to let down or live up to (and the added bonus of “feeling his life is worth living with Enjolras in it”) he’s going to do this. Even if it’s hard. Even if it royally fucking sucks, to be leaving Paris and his friends and his comfy apartment to go to an unfamiliar place filled with strangers and learn all about the various ways that his brain is all wrong. 

The panic is rising up in his throat again. 

“We should go,” he says, instead of anything else. He’s supposed to arrive in the early evening, so they’re taking the 14:00 train from Paris so they aren’t rushed walking there, and so Enjolras can get home and sleep in his own bed after dropping Grantaire off. Not that it seems like he’ll even be able to sleep. But at least he won’t be loitering around Reims, presumably feeling sorry for himself and probably working himself into one of his states. He’ll be on the train home, where Combeferre and Courfeyrac are going to meet him at the station and walk him home and keep him quiet company. Well, Combeferre will be quiet. All the Amis will be falling over themselves to keep Enjolras company in Grantaire’s absence. Grantaire wouldn’t let them throw him a farewell party. He actually told Enjolras not to tell them when he was leaving, because he didn’t think he could handle all the attention focused on him and his problem. And Bahorel probably would have wanted to make a banner with some sort of pun, which would have been unbearable. So they have lots of good, solid friend-energy built up to take care of Enjolras in Grantaire’s absence. 

There are certain things they can’t, or won’t, provide. Enjolras’ sex life is (hopefully) going to be taking a significant downturn, for instance. But he won’t be alone, not really. 

Enjolras will be okay. Grantaire has to believe that, because if he lets himself start feeling guilty about leaving his boyfriend behind for his treatment, well, it’s all pretty much over. That’s a brain-cycle he won’t win. 

So he’s just going to avoid it. Focus on the present. Right. Suitcase, shoulder bag, boyfriend, train ticket. He’s got everything he needs. 

Enjolras insists on carrying the suitcase, like the gentleman he is. Also, possibly because Grantaire’s cardiologist warned them both that he should continue to avoid strenuous activity of any kind so he doesn’t risk another heart attack. It’s probably that, actually come to think of it. 

They don’t talk much as they walk along the sidewalk. Enjolras carries the bag in one hand and keeps the other wrapped around Grantaire’s waist, tucking his free hand into the back pocket of Grantaire’s jeans like they’re co-stars in a cheesy teen movie or something. Grantaire would be lying if he tried to pretend like he didn’t really appreciate the warm, grounding pressure of Enjolras’ hand against his. Enjolras will never be the type of person to fill up the tense space with chatter, but he’s still there for Grantaire, without question, in his own way. 

The métro arrives with a typically lax attitude toward timeliness, so they have to run for the train to Reims, but once they’re aboard, Grantaire tucked into a window seat and Enjolras next to him, there’s nothing to do but wait. 

Grantaire is growing steadily more and more anxious with every passing minute, as he watches the familiar rooftops of the white buildings of Paris fade into the industrial grays and open spaces of the suburbs, and then the graffitied tunnels that mark their final exit from the city. He can feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest, can hear his own breathing getting faster and faster. He’s a little frustrated with himself. Okay, more than a little.

This was not the plan. He had promised himself that he would stay suitably calm throughout the whole process of transferring himself from his home in Paris to the hospital. Enjolras has enough to worry about, without him making things worse by being dramatic about the whole thing. He can calm back down. He can. He just needs to take a few deep breaths, and not focus on the feeling that his body is drowning itself from the inside, which, wow, is not working at all.

“What’s wrong, love?” Enjolras asks, shifting imperceptibly closer to Grantaire, as if with his mere presence he can force the bad feelings away. The sad thing is, he probably could. There’s relatively little that Enjolras can’t do, as far as Grantaire is considered. Pathetic, maybe, but he’s not too proud to admit the effect that Enjolras still has on him, even as their relationship grows and matures, becomes less of a fantasy come true and more of a real partnership, one that Grantaire has come to rely on and believe in in spite of his own attempts to cling to his doubts. 

For instance, his first instinct is to snap back at Enjolras, ‘What do you think?’ It should be obvious what’s wrong. But Enjolras isn’t asking because he’s oblivious, he’s asking because he wants to hear it from Grantaire. His second instinct is to say nothing, to slouch back against his seat and refuse to speak or make eye contact. But that also won’t make Grantaire feel better, and it will hurt Enjolras’ feelings. 

Trying to become a healthier person is exhausting. 

“I’m really nervous,” he says. “And sad to be leaving.” His voice sounds small, his complaint stupid, hanging in the air like that. This is why he doesn’t talk about his feelings. 

“Of course,” Enjolras says, simple and reassuring, and squeezes his hand. “It must be so hard.”

There are three things Grantaire loves in this world, in no particular order: Enjolras, his friends, and the city. He’s leaving all of them behind, to do something that he knows will be hard and painful. He hates hard things. He usually runs away from them pretty fast. He’s good at that. He doesn’t say anything, though, not even the thing he wants to say which is ‘How about we turn around and go back home and pretend this never happened?’ Instead, he lets his head fall heavily onto Enjolras’ shoulder and closes his eyes, waiting for the train ride to end. Hesitantly, Enjolras reaches up, tangling a hand in Grantaire’s curls. 

“I’m here,” Enjolras soothes. 

“For now,” Grantaire replies, petulantly, and, oops, that time it was out loud. 

“Always. Even if I’m not, per se, here.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Grantaire grumbles, but fondly, and he feels a little better. Just a little. 

His heart is still racing when it’s time to disembark in Reims. Enjolras hails a taxi from the train station over Grantaire’s objections, which are muted since he’s not the one who will have to carry a suitcase into the suburbs of an unfamiliar city.

Mercifully, the cab driver is not chatty, and the drive is a short one. Soon enough, they are pulling out of the old city with its cobblestones and looming cathedral, past a set of neat suburban houses, and up to a gated old building. The gates swing open at their approach, and the cab continues up a long, winding drive, to a small cul-de-sac just in front of the main doors. 

There’s only a discreet plaque, just below the address, with the name “Fern Hills” that assures Grantaire that they’re in the right place. 

“Well,” Grantaire says to Enjolras, as the cab pulls away—Enjolras will have to walk back to the station, it seems— “I guess this is it.”

“Go on,” Enjolras cues, but Grantaire can’t quite bring himself to do it, so Enjolras reaches out and knocks on the door for him.

Grantaire holds his breath for what feels like forever, waiting for the door to swing open.

When it does, the person on the other side is a cheerful, short woman with auburn hair piled up in a bun on top of her head. She looks to be in her early thirties, and she’s smiling. “I’m Diane, one of the clinical managers here. Are you Grantaire?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire answers, a little taken aback that he was expected, although now that he thinks it over, it makes sense. “And this is Enjolras, my boyfriend. He came to drop me off.”

“Lovely. Why don’t I show you to your room, so you can put that suitcase down, and then we’ll give you the tour, and then I’ll get you started on some paperwork?”

She steps aside, so that Enjolras and then Grantaire can follow her into the house.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mention of ED behaviors--not symptoms, but ways that patients hide their illness, and implied self-injury.

Their first stop is a room on the first floor. Grantaire was expecting more of a hospital bed set-up, like what he’d been in when he had his heart attack, but it actually looks more like a guest room at a bed and breakfast. There are cheerfully fluttering blue curtains, a neatly made bed with an ample selection of pillows, and a small empty bookshelf. The walls are decorated with some close-up black-and-white photographs of flowers, surprisingly attractive art for an institutional space. 

“Most of our patients are in double rooms,” Diane explains. “This is a ten-bed facility, with three double rooms and four singles. Since you’ll be our only male patient for the moment, you’ve got the room to yourself! We have eight others in residence right now, and you’ll meet them shortly, with another new admit coming in a few days.”

Great, so he is the only man here. He hadn’t realized just how small the facility was, either. There are fewer than ten people here, when it’s the nearest residential treatment to Paris, the country’s largest city, and according to his psychologist, one in twenty people has an eating disorder. He feels all the more unworthy to be here. 

“Why don’t you guys start unpacking? I’m happy to give you a hand—I also have to take a look at what you brought with you, to make sure you don’t have anything that could be used to harm yourself or anyone else.”

Diane’s matter-of-fact tone makes that a little easier to stomach, but Grantaire can’t entirely shake the discomfort that goes along with a stranger pawing through his suitcase, even though she’s nothing but careful and professional, hanging up each of his (excessive number of) shirts after she turns out the pockets and feels under the hems.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks, sounding the tiniest bit accusatory. Grantaire bumps him with his shoulder, trying to shut him up. He doesn’t want Enjolras starting fights already, when he hasn’t even been here a full hour. 

But she’s perfectly even in her response. “Good question. We’ll need to get an accurate measurement of Grantaire’s weight every morning, and unfortunately many of our patients have resorted to tricks like sewing small weights into the lining of their clothes to hide further weight loss while they’re here. I’m just checking for those.”

Grantaire isn’t sure what to make of that. The thought literally never would have occurred to him, even if he was losing weight, which, again, he’s not. But he’s here to get better, at great trouble and expense. If he was trying to hide getting sicker, he just would’ve stayed home.

He doesn’t say anything, though. Instead, they finish unpacking his suitcase. Everything is approved, except the pencil sharpener he brought with his sketchpad, one of his sketchpads, his favorite hoodie, and his razor. 

“Only notebooks without spiral binding are allowed, because the metal is sharp. We’ll keep the pencil sharpener and the razor up front in the office, and you can come sign them out for half an hour at a time if you need them.”

“Maybe I’ll just grow a luxurious beard,” Grantaire says, smiling slightly at Enjolras when his jaw drops, apparently at the mental image of Grantaire with a luxurious beard. Well, it’s good to know someone appreciates his hideous body or his horrid sense of humor or, incomprehensibly, both. 

“Another good option. You can keep the hoodie if you remove the string around the hood, or send it back with Enjolras.”

“I don’t want to deface my favorite hoodie. I guess I’ll live without it.”

“Very good. Anything else you need in here?”

“Nope, I think I’m good.” Steeling his resolve, Grantaire continues, “So, now the tour?”

“Yes. Enjolras, you’re welcome to join us for this part—dinner is at six, and you should have time to say your goodbyes before then.”

What a tactful way of pre-kicking him out. Diane’s really quite good at her job. He would appreciate it more if not for the fact that pretty soon Enjolras is going to walk away from him and he doesn’t know when he’ll see him again.

Wednesday. He’ll see him Wednesday, at visitor’s day. Now he’s just being dramatic for no reason. Which is the Grantaire modus operandi, but whatever. He’s got to keep things together, if only for Enjolras’ sake. 

The tour begins with this wing, the residential area of the facility, which takes up most of the second floor. There are six other bedroom doors along the hall, adorned with cheerful chalk signs naming each inhabitant in cursive letters. “Bedrooms are kept locked during the day until you’re on level three. We’ll discuss the level system in more detail later on, but essentially it’s a way of tracking your progress through the program. You’re on level zero until you present for the first time in group and are symptom-free for three days. Most of our patients progress to level one within the first week, to level two within a month, and discharge within six weeks, although everyone has to move at their own pace. There are two bathrooms up here, at each end of the hall. Those are kept locked at all times, but there’s always a key and someone to give it to you at the nurse’s station—you’re never confined to your room, and you can always get up and use the bathroom if you need to. But until you’re on level two, you’re on observation, meaning a clinician has to be there when you use the bathroom. Some people prefer to keep the door open a crack, some people close it all the way and maintain conversation, but we need to make sure you’re safe. Same thing goes for the bathrooms downstairs.”

A month of some nurse watching him every time he takes a shit. Great. What has he gotten himself into here?

Enjolras squeezes his hand, as if he’s reading Grantaire’s mind, which he probably can, damn him. Grantaire won’t give him the satisfaction of admitting that he’s having doubts, that a significant part of his brain is screaming that he should just get right back onto the next train to Paris and forget this whole thing ever happened. 

“This way.” There’s an elevator down to the main floor—taking the stairs is apparently another thing that goes along with the third level, “Or when your dietitian approves exercise!”

Grantaire’s not sure how walking down one flight of stairs counts as a workout when before the heart attack he was boxing fifteen hours a week, but, again, he’s not going to argue. He knows he’s acutely lucky to be here, that there are plenty of other people who need this spot and he has it and it’s costing an insane amount of money, so he’s not going to argue. So they wait for the elevator, which has no mirror in it, and it brings them down to the main floor.

Behind the largest door, just across from the elevator, is the primary therapy room, where the other patients are having art therapy right now. Grantaire is sure he’ll be spending enough time there quite soon, so he’s not at all worried by the fact that he’s asked not to disturb them at present. Down a narrow hallway is the kitchen, where a red-faced, round-bellied man—the parody image of a chef—is working. 

“This is James,” Diane introduces. “He’s our wonderful chef here. James, this is Grantaire.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”   
Grantaire repeats the sentiment. He can’t imagine what a difficult job James has, cooking for what must be the least enthusiastic audience any chef could have for his work. Nonetheless, the man seems cheerful.

“While you’re on level zero, your meals will be plated and brought to you, and you won’t have to worry about portioning or anything like that. As you move up, though, you can start measuring your meals yourself and choosing your own snacks, and eventually determining what feels like the right portion for your body at any meal. That won’t come until level three or four though, so don’t worry about it just yet,” Diane says, correctly interpreting the expression of panic on Grantaire’s face. “Follow me.”

Through a swinging saloon-style door is the dining room. Again, it’s a pleasant, sunny room, with a large table set for twelve and comfortable armchairs. In the center of the table is a fresh-cut bowl of flowers. 

“It’s so nice.”

“Mealtime is very stressful for most of our clients, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Yeah, dinner with a bunch of anorexics. Grantaire is stressed out just thinking about it.   
“We try not to have too many rules in general, since you’re all adults with autonomy. But in the dining room, we follow a few. We try to keep it a pleasant space to be in. Meals are 30 minutes, snacks are 15. There are three of each, every day. If you can’t or don’t finish your meal in that time, you can choose to supplement with Ensure. Your dietitian will decide how much. If you don’t take the supplement repeatedly, we’ll have to talk about moving to a higher level of care.”

“I thought this was the higher level of care.”

“Very occasionally, patients aren’t able to meet our feeding schedule, and they need tube-feeding in the hospital first. But most often, although it’s uncomfortable and difficult, our clients are able to adapt to the meal schedule within a few days. It won’t be easy, but you’ll have lots of support. You can step out during a meal if you need a moment, but you’ll need a clinician to go with you—there are at least two at every meal.”

Great. More bodily functions the doctors can watch him do. Can’t wait.

“They’ll eat with you, of course. We try to keep conversation light and positive in here: you’re encouraged to talk about every part of your experience as much as you’d like, just not during meals, for the sake of the other patients.” 

That sounds fair enough.

“If you’ll follow me.”

Grantaire also tours the dietitian’s office, where he meets Laure, one of the three dietitians on staff, though not the one he’s assigned to (he’ll be working with Julie). There’s a scale in front, which, to his immense displeasure, he’s informed he’ll meet with every morning, before breakfast.

“But my weight is stable!”

“It’s policy,” Diane replies, in a tone that brooks no questions.

Along that hall are more offices—three small, private rooms, where Grantaire learns he’ll be having individual therapy. 

“Your primary therapist will be Katherine, who’s lovely. You’ll meet her in just a few minutes.”

Then into the main lounge, where patients wait between appointments and therapy sessions. It’s yet another surprisingly nice space, although maybe he shouldn’t be surprised by now. There are large, plush couches with almost too many pillows, a coffee table covered with tissue boxes, journals, half-empty bottles of nail-polish, partially-finished puzzles, and board games, and a bookshelf lined with everything from pulpy romance to literary classics. At least not everything about it is awful.

“This is where our tour ends. I’m going to get Katherine so you can meet her and get started on your intake paperwork. There’s thirty minutes til dinner, so you should have time while everyone else wraps up group and goes to portion, and now would be a good time for you to say goodbye to Enjolras.”

Tactfully, Diane removes herself from the room at those words, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire alone together, standing in the waiting room. It’s time for them to say their goodbyes. Grantaire’s whole mouth grows die as dust, and he swallows hard.

“It’s only five days,” Enjolras says. 

“Now you’re the one reassuring me.”

“Well, you’re the one who…” Enjolras doesn’t finish that sentence, probably because there’s no tactful ending. Grantaire is the one who’s sick. The one who might die. The one who is staying here alone. The one who’s in a strange city. The one who’s surrounded by strangers. 

“It’s only five days.”

“Listen, R. I need you to know how much I love you, and how proud I am of you for doing this. I know it’s really, really hard. But I’m gonna be with you as much as I can, every step of the way. And I believe that you’re going to get through this.”

“At least that makes one of us.”

“Yeah. It does. And I’ll believe in you for both of us for as long as I have to, okay?”

Grantaire wants to say something snarky back, but he can’t figure out how to make his mouth move. Instead, he just says, “I love you, Apollo. I’m going to miss you.”

“You know I hate that stupid nickname, right?”

“I know. I don’t want you to miss me too much. Remember, I can be pretty annoying, too.”

Enjolras laughs, and leans in to kiss him, which is the exact result that Grantaire had been looking for. The kiss turns into a long, tight embrace, Enjolras’ body pressed up next to his, Grantaire’s face pressed into Enjolras’ annoyingly tall shoulder. He tries not to think anything melodramatic about having to memorize the feeling of Enjolras’ body against his—it’s not like he’ll never get the chance to hug Enjolras again, just that he doesn’t know what the rules on physical contact are and when he’ll be able to feel Enjolras strong and sure against him and whether or not he’ll be able to sleep tonight without Enjolras’ warmth next to him and now he’s crying. He thinks he’s hidden it successfully in Enjolras’ shoulder when he hears the sound of someone clearing their throat, and pulls away from Enjolras, not without regret.

There’s an unfamiliar woman standing there, tall and slender with medium-blonde hair pulled back in a bun. She looks to be in her mid-twenties. “I’m Katherine, your primary therapist. You must be Grantaire,” she says, as if she hadn’t just witnessed Grantaire sobbing onto his boyfriend’s shoulder. 

“I am. This is Enjolras, my boyfriend.”

“Nice to meet you both.” She shakes both of their hands. “I have some very boring paperwork for you to sign, Grantaire…”  
“I guess that’s my cue,” Enjolras says, not without some audible regret. He kisses Grantaire once more, very chastely on the forehead, but he’s not too private to add out loud, “Don’t forget, I love you more than anything. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

“See you Wednesday,” Grantaire manages through the heavy lump in his throat as he watches Enjolras walk away.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings in this chapter: description/comparison of different bodies affected by eating disorders, description of a panic attack, restrictive eating, mention of purging

Grantaire doesn’t let himself react too much to the tangible agony of Enjolras’ departure. It’s humiliating enough to feel so melodramatic about it. He doesn’t have to actually show that his boyfriend leaving makes him feel like he’s so sad he might actually die. There’s no reason for anyone else to know exactly how pathetic he is (read: very).

The therapist, Katherine, clears her throat. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“What?”

“This is a hard transition. I’m here if you’d like to talk about it—it’s my job, after all.”

It might be a joke, but Grantaire doesn’t laugh. 

“We can also just get these forms signed and leave delving into the tough stuff for tomorrow.”

“I want that one,” Grantaire manages, and Katherine nods.

The paperwork is, as promised, boring. He signs a half-dozen informed consent forms so the doctors can talk to each other and to his therapist back in Paris, sets it up so that Enjolras is his next of kin and can be contacted in an emergency, signs a non-disclosure that he won’t reveal anything other patients say in therapy, and so on. He tries to read everything carefully, but his head is spinning, and his hand is shaking. 

“When is the last time you ate?” Katherine asks. 

Grantaire frowns. He’s surprised to have the question asked so bluntly. Even Dr. Simplice usually waits to let him bring up his symptoms, not the other way around. “Um, yesterday at lunch?”

“Did you keep it down?”

“No?” It comes out like a question. Oops. He’s meant to give off a good first impression, of being someone who has his life together and who should hopefully be discharged back to his happy life with his boyfriend sooner rather than later. 

She looks at her wristwatch. “There’s only twenty minutes til dinner. If I bring you a protein shake now, will you drink it and still eat?”

This one he’s confident on. “I don’t think… I can keep all that down, even if I try.”

“All right.”

He's surprised she’s not pushing, the way Enjolras would. Nor does she seem upset to have to back off, the way Enjolras always does when Grantaire turns down food. As he usually does. 

He goes back to the paperwork. He remembers when he used to breeze through thick books for fun in an afternoon. Now one page is enough to make his head spin. He figures Dr. Simplice probably wouldn’t put him in the hands of an organization that was trying to make him sign away his life savings or anything, though, so he signs the paperwork.

Katherine gathers it all up in her clipboard. “Now, in just a minute everyone is going to come out of primary group. My colleague tells me that group went really well today, so there shouldn’t be too much tension, and everyone here is friendly, but if you’d rather do one-on-one introductions, I can set that up, too.”

That sounds terribly appealing, but it’s only eight other people. Grantaire decides that he can handle it. “I’ll just meet everyone as they come out. I think I can manage.”

“All right. I’ll see you at dinner tonight—got to run this to the office.”

She takes her leave, and Grantaire is alone for about two seconds before the door is open and people start streaming out of the primary therapy room. It seems like there must be a million of them, even though he knows it’s actually not nearly that many.

“New patient is here!” someone says, and Grantaire feels himself blushing, and is then embarrassed by that. It just feels an awful lot like the first day of high school or something, that’s all. He’s suddenly wishing that he’d taken the socially anxious coward’s way out and met them all one at a time or something like that. 

“Hey,” someone else says—this voice belonging to a slightly older woman. She looks like she’s in her mid-thirties, heavyset, and she’s wearing office clothes instead of the uniform of sweats and t-shirts that seems to pervade in the small crowd. Maybe one of the therapists, then. “Grantaire, right?”

“That’s me,” he manages through his dry throat. 

“I’m Jesslyn. One of the primary therapists here.” 

She has an American accent to match the American name, and a very nice smile. 

“Welcome to Fern Hills. We’re so pleased you’re with us. Guys, dinner’s in fifteen. In the meantime, introductions.”

Grantaire doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s mostly pleasant chaos. It sort of reminds him of being surrounded by the Amis, even though these women aren’t his good friends. 

First, he meets Ines, a tall and very thin black girl who looks barely sixteen. She’s wearing cut-off jeans and a too-big black sweater, and he recognizes her instantly as the type of person who is a million times cooler than him. Fortunately, he’s good friends with Éponine, so he’s used to that. He recognizes her vague nod in his direction as friendliness, and smiles back. 

In her shadow is Sara, petite and very pale. She seems to be about the same age, maybe even younger, and has beautiful waist-length dark hair that she hides behind, especially when Grantaire approaches her to say hello.

Manon, the next to greet him, is the oldest of the group. He’s not sure exactly where to place her—definitely middle age, but the physical symptoms of her illness might be making her look older than she is. She’s tiny, with skin that looks paper-thin. Her face crinkles up when she smiles at him, but her eyes are cloudy, and her hair is mostly gone. She shakes his hand warmly, with a conspiratorial smile, in spite of her obvious sickness. It’ll be nice to have someone else who doesn’t fit in, that smile seems to say. 

Aimee is around Grantaire’s age, in her mid-twenties. She’s obviously a friendly girl. She’s dressed unusually, in a floor-length dark skirt and plain shirt, her bright blonde hair pulled back. She informs Grantaire that, like him, she’s from Paris, though her family is originally from Germany. She’s been in treatment eight times before and is determined to make this one stick. 

Maryam is a student on leave from the university in Paris. She’s thin enough that it hurts to look at her, her bones visibly protruding through her skin, which has an unpleasant gray cast. When she smiles, her lips crack slightly, and there are thick scars along her wrist. 

Rose is an older teenager, or maybe twenty. She’s plus-sized, too. Grantaire tries not to let his relief show. He thought he’d be the only one. She doesn’t make much of an impression otherwise—she seems distracted, retreating to the corner to scribble in her journal. 

Louise is in her later twenties. She’s short, not even up to Grantaire’s shoulder, with closely-cropped bright blue hair. She mentions her wife within the first five seconds of meeting Grantaire, and he thinks it’s a homophobia test before she adds that they’ve only been married for eight weeks. So not just another queer person, but someone else who is madly in love. 

Lastly, Aimee introduces him, by proxy, to Lise, who’s standing at the back of the group. “She’s not up for meeting new people today,” Aimee says simply. “But she’ll warm up to you.”

Grantaire nods like he’s not totally overwhelmed. 

Laure, the dietitian, appears. “Can I get Ines and Rose to come portion, please?”

They follow her into the kitchen as Aimee explains, “They’ve been here the longest. They’ve been deemed capable of serving their own food. The rest of us, not so much. While you’re on zero they won’t even let you into the kitchen.”

“Could cause panic. Riots. Bloodshed, even,” Louise jokes. Grantaire smiles back. He’d been so nervous to meet these people, but they seem nice. For the most part, except for Lise who appears to be terrified of him, and Maryam and Sara who both look like they might collapse at any second. Well, about half of them seem really nice. He’ll take that. 

“So where have you been before? I don’t recognize you,” Aimee asks.

“Um. This is my first time.”

“Oh my God a genuine virgin.”

Grantaire flushes. “I, um, yeah. I never…”

“Well, you picked the right one,” Maryam interrupts. “After seventeen stays, I think I’m actually improving here.”

“Are there any other newbies?” he asks. 

“Well, Manon and Louise both admitted last week, so they’re new here… but you mean is anyone else in their first treatment stay? No.”

Grantaire’s stomach drops. Good thing it’s empty, he thinks darkly to himself. “So most people…”

“Oh, it doesn’t stick,” Sara interjects. “Sorry, did you think you were going to walk in and walk back out cured?”

“You don’t have to be so negative. Especially not right before dinner,” Aimee corrects, but the damage is done. Grantaire can feel the panic attack rising up in his throat, like his heart is expanding. A rush of blood to the head makes him so dizzy his knees get weak, and he collapses—luckily, the couch is there to catch him. He doesn’t actually lose consciousness, but he watches the world rush around him.

“Shit,” Sara says at once. “I’m so sorry.”

“We get dark here,” Aimee explains. “Coping mechanism.”

Sara adds, “If you don’t laugh about it, you have to cry about it—“

“And sooner or later, you get sick of crying!” everyone choruses. Grantaire feels a little better at that, but he can’t dislodge the panic.

He thought this would all be over in a few weeks. The whole point of coming here was to get better. Now he finds out that the odds are he’ll bounce in and out of places like this, maybe for the rest of his life. He might very well never get better, never be able to stop worrying Enjolras and their friends, never be normal. 

“Deep breath,” Aimee says. “Hold it. Two, three, four. Good. Breathe out. And hold it. Two. Three. Four.” She carefully talks Grantaire through the panic attack until the haze of terror subsides and he’s left more embarrassed than anything else. 

“Sorry.”

“It’s tradition,” Maryam interjects. “You have to have at least one panic attack on your first day. At least it wasn’t at dinner.”

Laure returns. “Everything okay here?”

Sara looks away, but Grantaire manages a smile. “Yeah, everything is okay.”

“Great. Time for dinner.”

Well, feeling better didn’t last very long.

Grantaire follows the girls into the dining room, feeling sort of like he’s being marched to his execution. He understood in abstract that he would have to face a meal here sooner rather than later. That just makes sense! He’s sick from not eating, he has to be made to eat. Normal people eat multiple times every single day. But he somehow hadn’t come to terms with it until he’s in the dining room and he’s staring down at a bowl of pasta. 

Did it have to be pasta on the first day? With thick cream sauce and a layer of cheese, too. Everyone has the same, he notices, though a few of the girls—Manon, Maryam, and Sara—have extras that the others don’t, a glass of juice or a few cookies on a second plate. He assumes this is because they need to gain so much weight to be healthy.

He’s been seated right next to Laure, the dietitian, and Katherine. He assumes this is some kind of deliberate first-day ploy. To his surprise, both the clinicians have a bowl of pasta as well, and they dig in enthusiastically as the patients pick at their food. 

The others are at least eating, although Manon looks like she might be sick right there at the table and Lise is shredding her pasta to pieces with the tip of the fork before nibbling at them. Grantaire is the only one who can’t. He can’t.

“Start with one bite,” Katherine says, casually. 

The panic rears back up in his throat again at the thought of that. He’s sure that everyone is looking at him, judging what he’s about to do. If he eats the pasta, they’ll all know he doesn’t really need to be here, that he’s just faking it. 

“Let’s talk.” Katherine stands, somewhat abruptly, and beckons Grantaire out of the room. He follows, his heart pounding. Is he going to be told to leave? Clearly he’s not dedicated enough to getting better. But Katherine just says, simply, “Do you want to try again, or do you want me to go get you a supplement?”

Grantaire unsticks his throat enough to answer. “I want to try.” He doesn’t want to fuck this all up on the first day. 

“Okay. What would help you?”

If he could be alone, without everyone staring at him. But he doesn’t say that. “I feel… self-conscious.”

“It’s weirdly quiet in there, right? Everyone else is struggling too. But I’ll get a game going. Distract everyone. You focus on your meal, okay?”

“Okay.”

It’s still silent when Grantaire returns to his place. Katherine explains the rules of some kind of party game called “Contact”—Grantaire isn’t paying attention. He’s focused on his nemesis in the bowl in front of him, the pasta. 

Why couldn’t it have been salad night? 

But before his mind can stop him, his hand goes for the fork. He doesn’t let himself taste it, just chews, swallows, reaches for another piece. His mind is screaming and his stomach is aching, but he does it, one bite at a time.


End file.
